


The Devil's Luck

by KouriArashi



Series: The Sum of Its Parts [12]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Argent family feels, Conspiracy, F/M, Hurt Chris, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Multi, Mystery, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stilinski Family Feels, Werewolf Hunters, also, because I always hurt Stiles, because that's fun too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KouriArashi/pseuds/KouriArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another day, another mysterious series of murders in Beacon Hills ....</p><p>Part 13 of The Sum of its Parts, in which I have given up any semblance of sticking to the canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hi everybody! It's a new part of TSOIP! How about that! I have seriously given up on this series even going anywhere near the canon. This part is mostly about hunters and stuff that I've created here in the AU. I love you guys for still reading this. =D
> 
> I want to issue a general trigger warning for lack of agency in this fic. I don't want to give a lot of detail because it's a major plot point. I will say that it is not sexual in nature, but magical compulsion with long-term consequences. If you have problems with that sort of thing and would like more detail, please feel free to [shoot me an ask on tumblr](http://gingersnapwolves.tumblr.com/ask) and I can tell you whatever you need to know. <3 (Even anon is okay, I can answer under a read more to avoid spoiling people who don't want details.)

 

The day before the pack’s sophomore year starts, things in the hunter world suddenly spiral into chaos.

At first, they all think it’s just an isolated incident. A werewolf in upstate New York was working with two or three hunters to track down and get rid of a wendigo, but as soon as that was done, one of the hunters turned on him and killed him. It was the sort of thing that was becoming depressingly commonplace, despite how much some of the hunters tried to discourage it. Most of the werewolves and other supernatural creatures were being increasingly selective in who they agreed to help.

Stiles heard about it the day before he left, but didn’t worry about it too much. It was the sort of thing that they were all getting used to. But then things took a twist when the hunter in question was killed, not by another werewolf, but by his fellow hunters. They issued an apology to the werewolf’s pack, saying that they hadn’t realized what their comrade-in-arms had intended.

It could have ended there, might have ended there, if they had been on a different hunter’s territory. Chris or his cousin Julien, Mikael Aronsson, other hunters who would have accepted the hunters policing each other. But they were on Jim Stoddard’s territory, and he immediately made it known that even if he didn’t approve of the first hunter’s action, there would be no vigilante justice on his territory.

Two days after that, those hunters were dead.

“I’m losing track of what’s happening,” Stiles said, skyping with Chris and trying to keep up. “Who’s winning right now?”

“Nobody,” Chris said grimly. “And it’s going to keep spiraling like that until someone puts a stop to it.”

“The cycle of revenge,” Stiles said, thinking back to Peter. But he doesn’t want to get involved. The hunters are going to have to solve their own problems. All he can do is try to help the other supernatural creatures steer clear of their internal strife. He updates the directory and alerts everyone relevant that New England could become a war zone.

Things settled down for about a week. Then a hunter in Michigan winds up being rescued on a hunt by a werewolf. He’s injured, and stays with the werewolf overnight while recuperating – until his hunter friends storm in to save him, killing the werewolf and her sister despite the hunter’s protests. 

One skirmish turns into two, two turns into four, and people start demanding _some_ response from the people in charge. Everyone is laying down their own rules. People who toe the line in one territory move into territories where they can get away with anything they feel like. The supernatural creatures in those territories get violent in response.

Lines which had been nebulous at first start to get set down more firmly. Supernatural creatures start to leave their homes if they can, to seek refuge in the safer territories. But it isn’t so easy for werewolves, who have to fight with other packs for land and are tied to their own territory. Hunters start moving around, too, aligning with people who share their views.

Stiles is two weeks into his semester and really getting the work piled on and trying to figure out what he can do to help, if there’s anything at all. Then something that nobody expected happens.

Throughout all of this, the fighting has been contained to the lower ranks. The family leaders hand down edicts and make it clear what behavior will and will not be tolerated, but haven’t been involved in the infighting. Then someone walks up to Mikael Aronsson in a hardware store and shoots him twice in the chest.

It stuns everyone, werewolf and human, leader and underlings alike. Nobody had dared touch one of the leaders, let alone try to assassinate one in broad daylight in a public place.

Mikael survives, due almost entirely to the fact that he had been planning on going out on a hunt and was already wearing his gear, including a Kevlar vest. He still winds up in the hospital for a week with broken ribs and internal bleeding. Ironically, the worst injury isn’t from one of the bullets, but from the concussion he gets when his six foot three inch frame gets knocked to the ground and his head hits the cold concrete.

The shooter is apprehended immediately, because Mikael was shopping with his wife and daughter, and neither of them are weak or helpless. He’s taken in for questioning, but somehow manages to commit suicide in his holding cell, so if someone put him up to it, there won’t be any way of knowing who. He’s a hunter, they determine that much, and originally from Washington, but Stella Jones denies any connection to him and none can be proven.

“You can’t keep letting it go on like this,” is Peter Hale’s opinion, when Stiles takes a break from the reading for his anatomy class to update him. “You have to take the offensive.”

“But we can’t,” Stiles says. “If we become the aggressors, all we’ll do is prove the hunters right, and every hunter who hasn’t already chosen a side will choose theirs.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Peter says, shaking his head. “You’re letting them push you around. You need to push back. Don’t you see what they’re doing? They can’t risk an open offensive because you have the superior numbers. So they’re fighting with guerilla tactics. Disclaiming any responsibility. But they’ll chip away at the strength that you have, until suddenly they’ll be the ones on top, and then they’ll take you out. All of us.”

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, it is,” Peter says. “I’ve been keeping track of the numbers for you. Your casualties in the past month are nearing the triple digits. Theirs have barely reached a dozen. They _are_ coming for you, Stiles, make no mistake about that. You have to be ready, and as far as I can see, a pre-emptive strike is by far your best option.”

“Well, I can’t exactly do that,” Stiles says. “This isn’t my war.”

“You’re joking,” Peter says. “You _started_ this war.”

Stiles squirms despite himself. “Not really,” he says. “I mean, if anyone started it, Kate Argent did, when she killed an entire family of innocent werewolves. But that’s not the point. This is hunter business. They’re going to have to sort it out. At this point, anything I do will only make things worse.”

“Tell yourself that all you want,” Peter says, “but nothing is going to change if you can’t get the enemies out of power. And as far as I can see, there’s only going to be one way to do that. Whether you like it or not, there _is_ going to be blood shed before the end of this.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “probably. But I don’t have to be the one to do it.”

“Never figured you for a coward,” Peter says. “I know full well that you’re capable of murder.”

“It’s not about that,” Stiles says. “It’s not that I don’t want to get involved or that I’m afraid or incapable or anything like that. The point is that if the hunter community is going to have a war over whether or not werewolves are people too, and I’m sort of the catalyst because of the whole human alpha thing, me coming out and committing or even _endorsing_ the assassination of my political opponents is only going to make matters worse. And you’re smart enough to fucking know that, so stop egging me on.”

Peter shrugs one shoulder and murmurs, “I suppose you do have a point there. But you have to admit that I’m right about one thing, Stiles. You’re losing. And if you don’t make a move soon, you’re going to be in real trouble.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Stiles says. He doesn’t bother to argue with Peter about the fact that he just, well, doesn’t _want_ to have to kill anyone. It’s not to say that there aren’t days when he longs to just take a shovel and a machete to these people, but those are just moments in time. He’s a soldier, but he’s not a killer.

Peter, for all his improvements, is simply never going to understand that. So it’s better to argue with him about tactics and strategy than bother arguing with him about the fact that Stiles simply doesn’t kill, not unless he’s backed to the wall and really has no other choice.

But Peter’s right about the fact that they’re completely on the defensive, and the more steps backwards they take, the more Stiles feels that wall coming.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles has a feeling that he’s going to be spending more weekends at home than usual. Normally they come home every month, but in September he comes home a weekend early because his father sprained his wrist on the job and he wants to fuss. Tom insists it wasn’t a big deal, he just took a wrong step while clearing a house and fell, but Stiles is Stiles, and obviously the situation is unacceptable.

Weekends are family time, rather than pack time. Stiles hardly even sees the den anymore, because he’s always sleeping at his father’s house when he’s home on the weekends. He also decides to spend an afternoon or evening at the Argent house. Part of that is to catch up with Chris, but it’s mostly because of Jake. He had spent most of the summer with them, and he’s bound into the pack now, even if it isn’t a strong bond. He’s antsy with them away at college, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it. It’ll be good for him to have some time with his alpha.

He ends up joining them for dinner, and his father comes over as well. Tom and Chris have become fairly close friends, working together a lot while their children are gone. Tom doesn’t talk about it much, but Stiles knows that being friends with Chris has soothed a lot of his fears for the direction his son’s life has taken.

Derek doesn’t attend, because no matter how much time passes, there’s always going to be an edge of awkwardness between him and Chris, and that’s not what Jake needs. So it’s just Argents and Stilinskis. They talk about school and how things have been in Beacon Hills. Victoria has made a roast chicken and mashed potatoes.

“I always love your mashed potatoes,” Stiles comments, taking a second serving. “Mine are never as good as yours. How do you get them so fluffy?”

“Trade secret,” Victoria says, with an icy stare.

Stiles is not at all fazed by her icy stare anymore – at least, not while they’re talking about recipes – and is accustomed to the high-stakes negotiations that will follow. “I could give you the recipe for my deviled eggs. I know that you really like those. Impossible to duplicate without the secret ingredient.”

“Please, I know your secret ingredient is dill, don’t insult me,” Victoria says. The others are watching as if at a tennis match. Allison hides a smile behind her hand. “Offer me something worth my time.”

Stiles takes a swig of his iced tea and says, “Vegan recipe for banana bread. I know that there’s that one hoity-toity woman at your book group who always complains that nobody brings good vegan snacks.”

“That’s true, although I have no particular desire to impress her,” Victoria says. She’s about to say something else when the doorbell rings. Chris glances at her, and she shrugs. “Ignore it. Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses. I’m not expecting any deliveries.”

Chris nods, reaching out to rub his thumb over her knuckles, barely hiding his mirth at their discussion. “You did mention wanting his recipe for Irish soda bread.”

“True,” Victoria says. “I do appreciate breads that don’t need time to rise. We could – ”

The doorbell rings again. A faint frown crosses over Chris’ face. “I’ll go see who it is,” he says, standing up, hand brushing over where his holster would normally be. He’s not armed – he doesn’t wear guns to dinner – but Stiles knows that he will be by the time he gets to the door. Paranoia is a way of life for all of them.

Victoria points her fork at Stiles. “Soda bread.”

“I’ll e-mail it to you,” Stiles says. “Potatoes?”

“Use a potato ricer.”

“What the heck is a potato ricer?” Stiles asks.

“It’s like a garlic press, but for potatoes,” Allison says. “It would take you a lot longer than using your mixer, I bet.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose and is about to make a comment when Chris walks back in, with someone else behind him. Everyone looks up with a questioning expression. The boy standing behind Chris is young, a pre-teen probably, with short dark hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose. He looks extremely nervous. Victoria opens her mouth, presumably to ask who their guest is, but then Jake says, “Phil!” and rockets out of his seat. He’s around the table and giving the boy a bear hug before anyone can say anything else.

Victoria looks at Chris. “I assume you would have told me if we were expecting a guest,” she says, and he nods.

Stiles knows who Phil is. Even without the family resemblance – Phil strongly favors his mother, Rose Argent, who’s someone Stiles won’t forget any time soon – he’s heard Jake talk about the letters that he exchanges with his younger brother. It seems pretty obvious what’s happened, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“What are you doing here?” Jake asks, pulling away and giving his younger brother a quick, assessing look.

“I, uh . . .” Phil looks around nervously. “Kind of ran away from home?”

“Oh, geez,” Jake says. “What happened?”

“It’s not my fault!” Phil says. “I was doing this stuff with the community theater and I really liked it, you know I _told_ you how much I liked it, and then I got cast as Peter Pan in the town play and I was super excited but then mom said I couldn’t do it because I wouldn’t have time, and when I tried to argue with her she said she wasn’t going to let me do _any_ of that stuff anymore, that I had to concentrate on the hunting stuff and I don’t mind doing that stuff, some of it’s kind of fun, but it’s not _all_ I want to do, I want to be an actor and she told me she wouldn’t ever let me do that stuff again so I kind of – ” His voice drops to an ashamed sniffle. “Kind of ran away.”

“Oh, geez,” Jake says again. “Well, um, okay. I mean, it’s okay that you’re here. Isn’t it?” He looks uncertainly at Victoria and Chris. “I mean, at least for a little bit?”

Chris sighs. “Yeah, we’ll work it out somehow.”

Tom pushes back from the table. “Well, on that note, I’d better get going,” he says.

“Why?” Chris asks, frowning at him.

“Because sheltering a runaway is a crime,” Tom says. “And therefore I was never here, never saw this child, and nobody told me about him being here. The fewer details I have, the happier I’ll be.”

“Fair enough,” Chris says.

Tom looks at Stiles and says, “You coming?”

“I’d rather stay,” Stiles says. “Derek can pick me up later.”

“Okay.” Tom squeezes his son’s shoulder and then heads for the door.

Once he’s gone, Victoria gives Phil a smile and says, “When was the last time you ate?”

“Oh, uh . . .” Phil rubs his hand over the back of his eyes and tries to look tough. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

Now he gets the laser stare. “That’s not the question I asked, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Phil responds automatically. “I had a sandwich this afternoon. When the bus stopped. There was a Burger King.”

“You took the bus here?” Chris asks, getting Phil into the seat that Tom had vacated while Victoria goes to get another plate. “That must have taken forever. Did you leave a note for your parents, tell them you were leaving, anything like that?”

“Nuh uh.” Phil shakes his head. “They leave me alone in the house a lot of the time. I just left. I took a taxi to the bus station. I had to save up for a few months. I help out some of my neighbors, mow lawns and rake leaves and stuff. Mr. McCreary pays me to walk his dog because he had to have knee surgery. So, you know, I saved up. I had Jake’s letters so I knew . . . if I could make it here, I’d be all right.” He gives Chris an earnest, hopeful look.

Chris rubs a hand over his hair and says, “Well, your dad’s going to figure out where you went. I’m honestly kind of surprised they didn’t get on a plane and beat you here. It takes a lot less time to fly from Chicago than to take the bus.”

“I don’t think they know?” Phil gives them an unsure smile. “Because I stole my mom’s credit card and used it to buy a plane ticket to Atlanta, you know, where Uncle Julien lives? And then I paid for the bus ticket with cash.”

Stiles breaks into a grin. “I _like_ this kid!” he proclaims.

“God help us,” Chris mutters. “I’d better go call Julien.”

He leaves the room, shaking his head. Victoria puts a plate of food in front of Phil, and he digs in, occasionally glancing at Jake for reassurance. “You grew out your hair,” he says.

“Yeah, I like it better long,” Jake says. “Oh, uh – this is Allison, you know, our cousin? And this is Stiles.”

“Hi,” Phil says, looking a little shy.

“Hi, Phil,” Allison says, giving him a warm smile. “So, Peter Pan, huh? Have you acted in anything else?”

“Yeah!” Phil brightens with this invitation to talk about what he loves. “I was in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court last year and the year before that I was in a play one of my teachers wrote. I auditioned to play Oliver in Oliver Twist, but I didn’t get it. I got to be one of the other kids in the play, though.” He looks down and swallows. “This – Peter Pan was the first really big role I got and I really, really wanted to do it!”

“Don’t worry, Phil,” Jake says. “We’ll get it sorted out.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to do any acting for a while, though,” Victoria says. “Not if your parents are looking for you. If they report you missing and the police get involved, things could get awkward. And your school will certainly notice that you’ve stopped attending.”

Phil droops. “I wasn’t in school,” he says. “Well, I was ‘home schooled’,” he says, making air quotations with his fingers. “But mostly they just wanted me to stay home so I could go out on hunts with my dad without having to make lots of excuses. They didn’t do much actual schooling.”

Victoria’s jaw tightens up like she’s thinking about getting on a plane and flying to Chicago to beat Henry and Rose herself. “I see,” she says. “Well, I’m sure we can find you some educational materials, if nothing else.”

“Too bad Lydia’s so busy,” Allison says. “I’m sure she’d enjoy the challenge.”

“Never tell Lydia she’s too busy to do something.” Stiles glances up and says, “Excuse me, I’ll be back in a minute.” He gets up and goes into the other room, where Chris is on the phone. The Argent’s family affairs are none of his business, but if Henry Argent is going to be showing up in town, he wants to know.

Chris arches his eyebrows, but doesn’t argue with Stiles’ questioning look. “Henry and Rose showed up on Julien’s doorstep yesterday madder than wet cats. They’re convinced that Julien’s lying to them and hiding Phil, because he’s ‘gone soft’, et cetera. Apparently, it hasn’t yet occurred to them that their son might have misled them with the plane ticket.”

Stiles gives a snort. “That kid is smarter than both of them put together.”

“Truth,” Chris agrees, and shakes his head. “Julien says he won’t say anything, and he won’t. But they’ll figure it out eventually, or they’ll at least decide they want to ask Jake about it.”

“Cross that bridge when we get to it,” Stiles says.

Chris gives him a sour look. “I feel like a _little_ planning ahead might not be a terrible idea. We’ll have warning, I suppose, in that Julien will call me when they leave Atlanta, but they’ll get here sooner than we’d like.”

“I envy you guys with your private hangers and your own airplanes and everything,” Stiles says wistfully. “I should look into getting my pilot’s license. You know, in my copious free time,” he adds, and Chris gives a snort of amusement. “Okay, fine. Presuming that Henry and Rose insist on barging in here to make sure that Phil isn’t here, we can just hide him at one of the den’s houses for a while. Hell, I can bring him to San Francisco. He’d probably get a kick out of that.”

“Probably,” Chris says. He looks back into the dining room and shakes his head with a sigh.

“Sorry,” Stiles adds. “I mean, not in an ‘apology’ sort of way, just in a ‘sympathy’ sort of way, like, my condolences that your family is batshit crazy and you probably only had one kid because you only wanted one and now you’ve somehow adopted two more.”

“Actually,” Chris says, “Victoria had a very bad case of endometriosis after Allison was born and that’s the reason we never had more children. We talked about adoption but . . . it didn’t feel right, given the hunting lifestyle. So I don’t have a problem with this, I just wish I had been a little more prepared.”

“Hey, he seems like a good kid,” Stiles says. “God, he’d have to be, to have come out of that household intact. Let’s go finish dinner. I need to finish my second helping of the mashed potatoes that I’ll never have the time or patience to make.”

Chris gives another snort and they head back into the dining room. Jake is telling Phil about the classes he’s taking at Beacon Hills High. Chris reassures them that they’re not in any immediate danger of parents storming the house, so they sit down to finish eating.

“They might not come here,” Phil says hopefully. “They don’t know I knew the address. They never found out about your letters,” he adds to Jake. “I hid them all. And then I brought them with me so they wouldn’t find them after I was gone.”

“Nice,” Stiles says. “You’re pretty clever.”

Phil gives him a hesitant smile. Then he lowers his voice and says awkwardly, “So . . . are you _him_?”

“Him who?” Stiles says, though he knows what Phil means.

“The . . . the boy in red. The alpha.”

“At your service,” Stiles says, letting the red flare up in his eyes for a brief moment.

Phil swallows hard and it seems to take him effort not to scoot his chair away. Jake reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t be scared of Stiles,” he says. “He’s really nice.”

“That, uh . . . that’s not what Mom and Dad said,” Phil mutters.

“They’re just sore because I outsmarted them a little,” Stiles says, but he decides to leave immediately after dinner instead of hanging out with Jake. He obviously wants to spend time with his little brother, and Stiles doesn’t want to make it awkward for them. “I’ll be home for most of tomorrow,” he says to Jake and Allison as he’s leaving, “but give me a call if you want me to swing by.”

“Will do,” Allison says, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papa Stilinski is forever my fave. XD

 

Stiles spends the weekend fussing over his father, who really requires no fussing whatsoever. They don’t leave Beacon Hills until late Sunday afternoon, almost four o’clock. “How’s your cousin doing?” Scott asks, as soon as Allison gets out of the front seat of her father’s car. They’re gathering at the den so they can caravan back to San Francisco, as they always do. It’s not strictly necessary, but it makes Stiles feel better, because he’s always paranoid that somebody will accidentally get left behind.

“Not too bad,” Allison says. “He’s terrified of his parents finding him here, for which I don’t particularly blame him.”

Scott grimaces. “What’s going to happen if they show up?”

“They’ll hide Phil somewhere and my dad will pretend not to know anything about it,” Allison says. “Will that work? I don’t know. Maybe.”

 Chris shakes his head a little, exiting the car. “Got a few minutes?” he asks Stiles. “Might as well give you an update while we’re here.”

“Update on what, exactly?” Stiles asks.

“Just the general state of things,” Chris says, but then he sighs. “I talked to Mikael. His physical therapy is going well, but Stella’s guys are crossing his borders and being a pain in his ass. He’s going to bring the hammer down on them if he has to, and it won’t be pretty. If he needs backup, I might have to go up there.”

“Great.” Stiles pushes his hand through his hair. “What else?”

“A couple ogres crossed from Illinois into Iowa, seeking refuge on the Winchester’s land,” Chris says. “This was apparently before Phil ran away, because Henry was involved. He tried to follow them. Hannah Winchester came down from on high to tell him to keep off. She actually called every hunting family leader to issue her decree that she’s not going to tolerate murder on her land, whether it’s committed by a human or a werewolf. To quote, ‘I don’t want your damn war, so keep it off my land’.”

“Well, could be worse,” Stiles says, grimacing.

“Yeah. Henry’s mood probably wasn’t improved when he came home and found that his remaining son had vanished.” Chris shakes his head. “On the upside, that might draw him back to his territory sooner.”

“Yeah, we should be so lucky,” Stiles says. “Listen, I was thinking about all this. Does it seem to you like we’re playing this too defensively?”

Chris shakes his head. “I know what you mean, but you know we can’t take the offensive without too many neutral hunters taking the other side.”

“I know, I really do,” Stiles says, “but the problem is, they know that, too. They’re going to keep chipping away at us, and eventually we _will_ lose enough numbers that we’ll be vulnerable. I’m just saying, maybe we can’t go on the offensive, but maybe we can respond more . . . aggressively . . . when threatened.”

“Maybe. I’ll talk to Julien about it,” Chris says. “Anyway, I’m sure you have other things to worry about.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a sigh. “Okay, keep me posted.”

The others are starting to arrive, so they get their things together and head out. He gets a text from Chris about an hour later but doesn’t notice it until they’re in San Francisco and debating what to order for dinner. It reads, ‘Henry’s on his way.’ Stiles rolls his eyes and goes back to talking about dinner and studying for the anatomy quiz he has the next day.

“You know, I had a thought,” Derek says, sitting next to him and absently rubbing his back while he studies and eats samosas. “Let’s say that Chris tells Henry that he hasn’t seen Phil. Even if Henry believes him, he’s still going to think that Phil went to Beacon Hills. He’s just going to think that _we’re_ hiding him, instead of Chris.”

“Dude can think whatever he wants,” Stiles says, chewing on a pencil.

“Yeah, well, he can’t _do_ whatever he wants. What if he tries to break into the den?”

Stiles does look up at this and cracks a smile. “Think he’d manage it if given a second try? Or would he fall right back in the same pit?”

“He’s not _that_ stupid,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, what I was going to say was, if he insists on checking it out, I’d rather Chris just let him in and show him around.”

“You think?” Stiles asks. The rest of the pack look over at this, not interrupting, but interested.

“If Chris acts as his escort, or if one of us goes back to town so _we_ can act as his escort, then we know he won’t break anything trying to get in, and we’ll be able to make sure he doesn’t hide wolfsbane under all our beds,” Derek says.

“That does sound like a sensible precaution,” Lydia remarks.

“Yeah, it’s not a bad idea,” Stiles says with a sigh. “Chris can’t get into the house proper, though. We gave him the keys to the gate but not to the house itself. Maybe you and Erica could go back, since you two don’t have classes?” he adds, and they both nod in agreement. “Okay, I’ll text Chris to let him know that if Henry wants to take a look at the den to make sure his kid isn’t there, we’ll let him have a look, as long as he’s willing to wait for us.”

“It’s getting late, you wanna leave now?” Erica asks, leaning over to rub her cheek against Derek’s temple.

“Probably better if we do,” Derek says with a nod. “If we can get there before Henry, it’ll be easier for everyone.”

“Keep me posted,” Stiles says, and Erica tosses off a jaunty salute.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek’s intuition turns out to be exactly correct. Henry sneers at Chris’ statement that he hasn’t seen Phil and has no idea where he is. He insists on searching the Argent household and then says that they’re probably hiding him at the den. Chris is smart enough to let him demand to go there rather than offering it.

“If we offer, he’ll know we were prepared for it,” he texted Stiles during their discussion. So they show up at the den and he knocks on the door until Derek answers it, dressed in pajamas and looking like he had been in bed.

Derek protests and growls and blocks their way into the house, insisting on calling Stiles before he’ll let them in. “Those asshole Argents are here, something about their other kid running away from home and thinking we’re hiding him,” he snarls into the phone. Stiles tries not to laugh, and stays on the phone while Derek follows them around the house, making them uncomfortable.

“This is even worse than when Agent Douchebag came to town,” he says to Stiles.

“They can’t possibly be more obnoxious than he was,” Stiles says, lying on his back with his feet up against a wall.

“No, but at least with him I could threaten legal action,” Derek says. He sounds aggrieved. “These assholes are touching _everything_. And as dumb as they are, they know how dens work and they’re poking their noses into every nook and cranny. We don’t have any secret rooms, assholes!” he shouts at them, taking the phone away from his mouth for a few moments.

“Unless you count the armory,” Stiles says.

“That’s not secret, it’s just really thoroughly locked,” Derek says, and then grumps, “and I had to at least open the door so they could see their shitty offspring wasn’t hiding in there.”

Stiles grins. He knows that Derek doesn’t think Phil is shitty, but talking about him that way might discourage Henry and Rose from further exploration. “They’re also talking about going over to your dad’s place.”

“Oh, that oughtta be fun,” Stiles says. “He’s going to tell them to come back with a fucking warrant. It probably won’t help, but it _will_ be entertaining.”

That is, in fact, exactly what happens. Derek follows the Argents over to the Stilinski house so he can watch the fireworks on Stiles’ behalf. Tom Stilinski answers the door still in his uniform, because he had been working a late shift. That alone seems to make Henry uncomfortable. Tom leans against the doorframe and looks extremely unimpressed with the pair as they demand to search the premises.

“No,” he says.

“If you’re hiding my son in there – ”

“You have absolutely no evidence that I’m doing so,” Tom says. “Or anyone else in the pack, for that matter. If you try to come in here without permission, I’ll have you arrested for breaking and entering. If you go to the house of any other pack member and demand entrance, I’ll have you arrested for harassment. Go back to Illinois and contact your local police to file a missing persons report for your son. If they would like to provide you with the proper paperwork to have an actual officer of the law come search my residence, I will be happy to comply. Until then, get off my property.”

“You – you can’t – ”

“If you _don’t_ return to Illinois and file a missing persons report about your son, I’ll contact child welfare and notify _them_ that your son has disappeared and you haven’t reported it to the police. And let me be the first to tell you that the department of child welfare will be very, very unhappy to hear that.”

Henry’s jaw sags further. “They won’t believe you – ”

“Since Mr. Hale over there has been recording this entire conversation, I’m fairly sure they will.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“If you really want my mother involved, I can call her, but trust me, she won’t be impressed with your attitude.”

“She survived the Holocaust!” Erica shouts from where she’s spectating, and everyone present has a hard time not bursting into laughter. Henry and Rose are on the verge of sulking as Chris makes them return to the car and they depart. Erica takes the phone from Derek and says to Stiles, “Is it weird to say that I would totally have sex with your dad?”

“Yes,” Stiles says. “It is very weird, and please don’t ever say it again.”

“I’m just saying. Your dad’s awesome.”

“Well, that I agree with,” Stiles says, and shakes his head. “Chris can take it from here. You two chill for the night and I’ll see you after my classes tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay!” Erica says, and hands the phone back to Derek, who rolls his eyes and gives Stiles a quiet ‘love you’ and then a louder good night.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is busy studying for an upcoming test he has in his psychology class when his phone rings. It plays the theme to Hawaii 5-O, his father’s ringtone, which is really the only reason he answers it. “Yo, what’s up?” he asks, absently highlighting a line in his textbook.

“Got some news,” his father says, in a cautious tone, “and you won’t like it.”

“Great,” Stiles says with a sigh, pushing the textbook away. “Okay, lay it on me.”

“You know that wendigo family on the north side of town?”

“The Walcotts? Yeah, I remember them,” Stiles says. He hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of a family of cannibalistic shapeshifters living on his territory, but they had been there since long before he became the alpha. Besides, if they could control their hunger, he couldn’t really say much about them. “What about them?”

“Well, they were killed,” Tom says.

“Nrrrrg,” Stiles says, which is about as close to eloquence as he’s going to come. “Any idea what happened? You said ‘killed’, not ‘dead’, so I assume you have evidence of foul play.”

“Yeah. It’s definitely hunter-related. Chris went over all of it with me, he said there’s some kind of special blade – it’s not important.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Stiles says. “Henry and Rose don’t get their way so they start murdering people? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Tom sighs. “As much as I wish it was that easy – and believe me, I do wish that – Henry and Rose have a rock solid alibi.”

“How rock solid?” Stiles grumbles.

“Extremely. They were in a holding cell.”

“Oh.” Stiles considers this. “Tried to break into the house, did they?”

“Actually they tried to accost Jake on his way home from school.” Tom keeps talking, over the outraged noise that Stiles makes. “Chris knew it would be suspicious if they somehow found out Jake wasn’t in school, so he kept going. Chris had warned Henry not to try to talk to him, but of course he did, laid in wait outside the school. Jake did exactly what we had told him to do – texted me and kept his dad talking until someone could get over there and have him arrested.”

“I take it that they’re out now?”

“I let them sweat out their twenty-four hours in holding, which gave me enough time to contact the Peoria PD and let them know that Phil had run away from home and that his parents had decided to come here and harass the son that had been removed from their house due to domestic violence. They were _very_ interested. They told Henry that if he wasn’t back in Peoria within the next twenty-four hours, they’d issue a warrant for his arrest.”

“Cool,” Stiles says. “Think they’ll listen?”

“Well, Chris drove them to the airport yesterday, so I _think_ that they’re gone, but we’re not letting our guard down.” Tom gives another sigh and says, “Back to the point. Since we know it wasn’t Henry and Rose, Chris says he thinks it was Stella Jones. She’s the closest, borders us on the north. We know she’s been straying from her territory because she’s stepped on Aronsson’s toes a bunch of times. If he told her to step off, she might have come looking down here. Not that we have any proof of this, but it’s a pretty sound theory.”

“Okay.” Stiles rakes a hand through his hair. “Okay, I’ve got this test tomorrow, but I’ll come straight home after that. I can be there by – ”

“Stiles, you don’t need to do that,” Tom says. “Let Chris and I handle this.”

“I can’t just sit by while hunters kill people on my territory – ”

“You remember the deal we made?” Tom asks, and Stiles falls silent because he does. It’s not an argument he’s going to forget any time soon. Tom chooses to reiterate it anyway. “I promised that I wouldn’t hide things from you like I did with Jennifer Blake. And _you_ promised that you would trust my judgment to when you needed to come back to Beacon Hills. It’s one incident; we have a likely suspect. Give Chris and I a few days to see how things shake out. Okay?”

“Okay, fine,” Stiles says, with another sigh. “Just – keep me posted, okay?”

“Will do,” Tom says. “Chris has been on the phone shouting at people all evening. He’s extremely pissed off at Stella. Apparently they had made some sort of bargain that if we were able to get rid of Eli Whitaker without needing her help – which we did – then she would back him up on the whole ‘not murdering werewolves out of hand’ thing.”

“And she has, of course, done exactly the opposite,” Stiles says.

“Yeah. And he was willing to overlook that as long as she only did it on her own territory, but now she’s apparently going to start spreading the wealth. Chris said he might meet up with Aronsson and then go to Oregon. But yes, if he does that, I will call you and you can come home so Beacon Hills isn’t completely unguarded.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says.

“You’re welcome. You go study.”

“Okay, will do. Love-you-bye,” Stiles says, and waits for his father to echo the words before he hangs up. He chews on his lower lip for a minute, looking at his textbook without really seeing it. It’s not just the hunters he’s worried about. He trusts that Chris is capable of going up to Oregon and beating the shit out of Stella Jones, with or without Mikael’s help.

But any sign of vulnerability can result in other supernatural creatures horning in, trying to snatch his territory out from underneath him. As much as he’s worked to get better acceptance of the idea of not murdering supernatural creatures sight unseen, he has to admit that a lot of them _are_ quite nasty. And there are plenty who would happily take advantage of Stiles being distracted by the turmoil in the hunter world.

It’s barely a month into the semester. He doesn’t know how this is all going to play out in the long-term, but it bodes poorly for his grades.

After a minute to think it over, he sighs and knuckles down over his textbook. He might as well get the studying done while he can.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“No, Stiles, I’m fine,” Jake says for easily the fifth time. “It wasn’t a big deal.” He has a rather uncharitable feeling that Stiles is hoping that Jake is upset so he can use that as an excuse to come back to Beacon Hills, which is where he wants to be. But he’s really not upset.

It’s funny how things change over time, he muses as he stares upwards and watches his ceiling fan lazily twirl. Two years previous, his parents accosting him as he walked home from school would have been one of his worst nightmares. Now, more than anything, he just feels . . . unimpressed. He supposes his parents are good hunters – they’ve kept hold of a large territory – but they don’t have any power over him anymore.

“Okay, well, if you want me to come pistol whip them or something, you just say the word,” Stiles says.

“They’re already on a plane back to Illinois,” Jake reminds him.

“I could fly to Illinois to pistol whip them,” Stiles says.

“That’s really not necessary.” Jake sees Phil peering in his doorway and sits up. “Hey, I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says, seeming a little reluctant to hang up. But he does without complaint.

Jake gestures for Phil to come in. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Were you talking to him? To Stiles?” Phil asks, and Jake nods. Phil hesitates, shifting from foot to foot, then asks, “What about?”

“He called to check on me. I guess either his dad or Uncle Chris told him about the way that Dad had tried to corner me on the way home from school, and he was worried about me.”

Phil sits down on the edge of the bed. “He’s not . . . anything like the way Mom and Dad described him.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what Mom and Dad said about him,” Jake says with a sigh. “And I’m not going to say he’s some kind of angel. I mean, I don’t know that anybody is. Stiles can be pretty nasty when he’s acting to protect his pack and his territory. But he doesn’t go out of his _way_ to be mean, you know? He tries to take care of people. I mean, that’s why Mom and Dad hate him so much. Everything he did back then, he did it to help me.”

“I’m sorry that . . . that they were always so mean to you,” Phil says.

“Don’t be,” Jake says. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, okay, buddy? None of what they did is your fault.” He reaches out and tousles his little brother’s hair.

“I don’t really get why they were like that,” Phil says.

Jake shrugs a little. “I think there’s a lot of family history and stuff that we’re missing out on? Like, Gerard was kind of a big shot in the family, but I think there was some tension and rivalry there. I think Dad was under a lot of pressure to succeed. And he did really well, but . . . maybe it just wasn’t enough for him.” He doesn’t say the rest of what he’s thinking. He knows that a lot of the problems his parents had stemmed from the fact that he isn’t biologically Henry’s son. He doesn’t know who his father is and doubts he’ll ever find out. What he has figured out over the years is that Henry didn’t realize that Jake wasn’t his until after Phil was born, and that’s why he and Rose stayed together.

Henry and Rose were an arranged marriage, he knows – Rose is from a prominent hunting family from Britain – and he suspects that Rose never really wanted to marry Henry and had no qualms about cheating on him. Rose obviously figured that Henry would never figure it out, but when Jake had done poorly at every hunting test they put him to, Henry had started to suspect. He gets his curly hair and his myopia from somewhere, and it isn’t Rose or Henry.

But he doubts that Phil knows any of this, and doesn’t really want to talk about it with his little brother. So instead he says, “You know Mom and Dad were an arranged marriage, right?”

Phil nods. “Yeah. They were arranging one for me, too.”

“They – ” Jake chokes. “You’re twelve!”

“Yeah, but they said Jim Stoddard’s daughter is the same age as me. But I guess it wasn’t working out for some reason.”

Jake can easily see what that ‘reason’ was. Henry Argent has taken a hit in the reputation category lately, and the Stoddard family is old and prominent. They probably told Henry that their daughter was too good for his son, which could explain a lot about why they’d suddenly decided that Phil needed to stop acting and buckle down on his hunting duties.

“Well, anyway,” he says, “sometimes I think hunting was the only thing Mom and Dad really have in common. So it’s really important to them.”

“That makes sense,” Phil says. “And it’s important to me, too!” he adds. “There was a lot of stuff about it that I liked. I liked learning about nature and how to read tracks, and I was good at fighting, I was in karate and jiu jitsu and I really enjoyed all that stuff. I like the idea of helping people. But can’t I do that _and_ be Peter Pan?”

“Sure,” Jake says. “If I have anything to say about it, anyway. I mean, look at Aunt Victoria. She’s a great hunter, and she goes with Chris on his hunts sometimes. But she also is a really good cook and she knows how to knit and crochet and she does a lot of other stuff too. She says it’s all about finding balance.”

Phil looks up at Jake uncertainly. “They’ll let me stay, won’t they?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Jake says. “I mean, we’re going to have to figure out how to get Mom and Dad to agree to it eventually, but . . . I’m not going to let them ruin your life.” He gives his brother a light shoulder punch and says, “You stick with me, we’ll ‘get it sorted’, as Stiles says. Now, if you like hunting, then obviously you must be a pro at first person shooters, right?”

“Mom and Dad never let me play many video games,” Phil says.

“Well, then, you’re obviously going to have do a lot of work to catch up to me,” Jake says, and springs off his bed. “Race you downstairs!” he says, and bolts. Phil jumps up after him, elbows past, and beats him by three steps.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I could manage a juice cleanse for more than about four hours. /random

 

Stiles makes it three entire days before he calls his father to demand news. He’s proud of himself for making it that long, and annoyed when he has to leave a message. If he’s going to go home for the weekend, he needs to start thinking about it now. It’s Thursday evening, and he’s trying to get a head start on his reading for the weekend.

He’s gotten so deeply involved in his sociology assignment that the phone actually startles him when it rings. He fumbles and grabs for it. “Hey, what’s happening?” he greets his father.

“A lot, and you’re not going to like any of it,” Tom replies.

“Oh, geez.” Stiles pushes a hand through his hair and looks around for the others. Several of them are in the main apartment, watching television. Lydia, Boyd, and Mac are all in the study with him. He doesn’t want to disturb them from their school work, so he gets up and heads into Derek’s studio, which is currently unoccupied. “Okay. Lay it on me.”

“The reason I didn’t answer is because there was another murder,” Tom says. “A sorcerer named Tim Marciano. He’s a little shady. Deaton’s been keeping an eye on him and had issued him at least one warning not to get in over his head, but as far as we can tell, he hadn’t done anything to deserve execution.”

“Hunters again?” Stiles asks.

“Definitely. Shotgun shells laced with mistletoe.”

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles says. “Okay. What’s the plan? Tell me you have a plan?”

“Well, we might have a lead or two,” Tom says. “Marciano had protective magic on his place. It wasn’t strong enough to prevent the murder, obviously, but Deaton’s looking into how the hunter got past it and seeing if there’s anything he can trace.”

“We do know that Stella Jones works with sorcerers,” Stiles says.

“Yeah. Chris is going up there this weekend. So yes, obviously you can drop everything and come back to Beacon Hills while he’s gone.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “You gonna let me take a look at the crime scenes?”

“I will let you take a look at the crime scene _photos_ ,” Tom says. “We can negotiate from there.”

“That’s fair,” Stiles says. “Okay, shit, I’m gonna go. I want to get ahead in my reading if I’m going to spend the weekend obsessing over crime scene photos and hunter politics.”

“Good thinking,” Tom says. “I’ll see you around six, probably?”

“Yeah. See you then.” Stiles hangs up his phone and sighs. Then he sends the others a group text that says, ‘Meeting in the kitchen, five minutes’. That will give all of them time to finish up what they’re doing, and he won’t have to round them all up himself. He heads into the kitchen to check and see if the peanut butter fudge he made earlier that day has solidified enough to eat. It has, so he starts cutting it into squares.

“Hey, a peanut butter fudge meeting, my favorite kind!” Erica says, smacking a kiss onto Stiles’ cheek as he starts handing out napkins with pieces of the candy in it, and then a kiss onto Boyd’s cheek as he hands her one.

Derek isn’t quite as upbeat. “What’s going on?”

“Some asshole hunter is stepping on Chris’ toes and killing supernatural creatures in Beacon Hills,” Stiles says. “First the Walcotts, that family of wendigos, and then a sorcerer last night. Henry and Rose are gone, so the likely suspect is Stella Jones. Chris is going up to Oregon this weekend, so I’m heading home tomorrow so I can make sure nobody tries to invade while he’s gone.”

“What fun,” Scott says. He looks at Allison and sees her scowling. “Babe?”

“I’m going with my dad,” she says, pulling out her phone. “He might need the backup.”

“I think he’s meeting with Mikael, but feel free,” Stiles says. “The rest of you can decide on your own. I know we’re only a month into the semester and we’ve all got projects and work to do. I’d like at least two or three people back with me, but you don’t all have to come.”

There’s a few minutes of general debate. Normally Erica would be the first to say she could go, since she isn’t in school, but she has a photo shoot over the weekend. Lydia is in the middle of some project involving string theory. Boyd has a presentation due on Monday and Mac is in the middle of a web design project. In the end, Scott, Danny, Isaac, and of course Derek, agree to go with Stiles.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“You’re sure you want to come along?” Chris asks, packing up the last of his things and zipping up his bags. “It’s not going to be a fun trip.”

“Will I get to punch Stella in the face?” Allison asks.

“Probably not.”

Allison makes a face at him. “Yes, I’m sure that I want to go. And yes, I’m aware that she hates me and my presence probably won’t help matters. I’m just not sure I care.”

“That’s shocking,” Chris says, but he seems amused despite himself. He grabs his bag and heads downstairs, leaning in to kiss Victoria on the cheek. “Take care of the boys,” he says, and she gives him an icy look. He heads out to the car.

Allison leans into the refrigerator to grab the thermos full of iced tea she had put in there earlier, and sees her mother frowning after Chris. “Everything okay?” she asks.

“He’s just been stressed lately,” Victoria says. “Grumpy and uncommunicative. You know how he gets,” she adds, and Allison laughs because she does. “I hope this trip goes well. I’d go along if it weren’t for Phil.”

“Don’t worry,” Allison says. “I’ll take care of him.” She gives her mother a hug and heads out to the car. Fifteen minutes later, they’re at the airport. Chris has chartered them a flight up to Portland, and from there it’s only a short drive to Stella’s home base.

The last time Chris had visited Stella, he had arranged a meeting at her office, because he was being polite and didn’t want to ambush her. This time, he hasn’t bothered. With Mikael’s help, he’s figured out what house she operates out of, and heads straight there.

They’ve gotten about halfway there when his phone rings. “Allison, can you grab that?” he asks, and she takes it out of his jacket pocket and answers.

“Allison?” The voice is masculine and familiar. “It’s Mikael. I’m not going to be able to meet you.”

“Is something wrong?” Allison asks.

“Nothing new. I told your father there might be an issue. Just tell him something’s come up; he’ll know what I mean.”

“Okay, will do,” Allison says. She hangs up and frowns at the phone. “Mikael isn’t coming. He said something’s come up and you’ll know what that means.” She sees her father grimace slightly and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“He’s had some issues with his rehab,” Chris says. “He asked me not to talk about it because he doesn’t want it spread around, and he didn’t really give me any details. He just told me that depending on how he felt, he might not be able to make it.”

“That sucks,” Allison says, and she means it. Generally speaking, she likes Mikael, even if he had spawned terrible children. “But I guess getting shot twice in the chest can do that to you, even if you’re wearing a vest.”

“From what I’ve gathered, the problem was less the bullets and more the concussion,” Chris says. “But again, he hasn’t told me a lot.”

Allison thinks this over, watching the trees sweep by the passenger window. “That’s awfully convenient for Stella, isn’t it.”

With a grimace, Chris says, “Yes, it is. And you’re hardly the first person to have that idea. Trust me, we’ve done _everything_ we can to tie that attempted assassination back to Stella. I’m ninety-eight percent sure that she was responsible. But we can’t prove it, so don’t talk about it. Understand?”

“Yeah, Dad, I got it,” Allison says with a sigh. “I don’t suppose anyone has actually asked her about it?”

“That would basically amount to accusing her,” Chris says. “So no, I don’t think anybody has actually asked her directly. I don’t see what the point would be. She would be happy to lie straight to our faces. God knows it wouldn’t be the first lie she’s told.”

“Well, we’re going to kick her ass,” Allison declares. Chris gives a snort and then nods. Allison studies her father for a minute, notices lines on his face that hadn’t been there before. She can see more gray at his temples. It seems almost like he’s gotten older overnight. “Hey, are you okay? Mom says you’ve been stressed lately.”

Chris shrugs. “No more than usual, I don’t think.”

“You look tired,” Allison says.

Chris gives her a look. “You do know that you’re my daughter, not my mother, right?” he asks. Allison gives him an unimpressed look. He sighs. “Look, Ally. I don’t like arguing with my cousin. I’ve known him since he was young, and . . . he’s always been a spoiled, arrogant brat, but . . . this war is taking a toll in more than physical lives. Ten years ago, I never would have believed Stella was capable of trying to assassinate another hunter. I never would have thought Henry would push his sons so hard that he would lose both of them. This war is _changing_ people.”

“I guess that’s what war does,” Allison says quietly.

“Maybe,” Chris says. “I know what we’re fighting for and I know that it’s right. I don’t know where this, this poison started spreading in the hunter world, if it was my father or my sister or what, but I know that we need to purge it, before we lose more people who used to be good hunters, like Stella and Henry. But I just don’t know how to do it. It seems like every choice is a bad one.”

“Stiles has talked about that some, too,” Allison says. “About how we can’t be the aggressors because we’ll just look like the bad guys, but just playing defense is ending up getting people killed.”

“Yeah.” Chris sighs and shrugs. “I don’t know, Allison. If you come up with a good idea, trust me, I’d be willing to listen. In the meantime . . .” He turns off into a driveway and parks the car. “Let’s see what Stella has to say for herself.”

What Stella has to say is an abrupt, “What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Argent?” as she folds her arms over her chest and denies them entry into the house. She’s a tall, broad-shouldered woman, and pushing past her isn’t in the cards.

Chris seems fine talking to her on the doorstep. “Wanted to talk to you about a few people who died on my territory.”

Stella sneers at him, and Allison wishes she had brought along one of the werewolves in the pack. The ability to hear heartbeats and detect lies isn’t an exact science, but it’s come in handy in the past, and she’d give a lot to know how Stella’s responding to their words. “What about them?”

“Well, I didn’t kill them,” Chris says. “None of my guys killed them. But somebody did.”

“Oh, and you think it was me?” Stella asks.

“You’ve been straying off your territory,” Chris says flatly. “Don’t try to deny it. Mikael and I have known about it for months. But it’s one thing to hunt down an omega or two in northern California and another to come down to Beacon Hills and murder entire families.”

A frown flickers across Stella’s face. “I haven’t been in Beacon Hills.”

“Really?” Chris sounds unimpressed, but Allison, watching Stella’s face, believes her. She looks genuinely confused. She isn’t trying to protest the fact that she’s been stepping off her territory, or killing omegas, but this particular accusation seems to puzzle her.

“I’ve been in Idaho for the past two weeks,” Stella says. “Only got back last night. You can check with my guys if you really care that much.”

“Even if you didn’t do it personally – ”

Stella cuts him off. “Stop wasting my time, Argent. I don’t give a fuck who’s killing families in Beacon Hills. I’ve got real work to do. So get the hell off my territory. And don’t even try to threaten me. I’m not afraid of the two of you.”

Allison sees her opportunity and takes it. “Well, Mikael Aronsson was going to come, except I hear somebody shot him.”

At this, Stella smirks. “Yeah, I heard that too. And I know you think it was me. It wasn’t. You know how I know that? Because I know who it was. And you are barking so far up the wrong tree with that one, you can’t even imagine. Now, are we done here?”

Chris narrows his eyes at her. “Not until you agree to stay on your territory. We made a deal.”

“Yeah. That if you killed Eli, I would support you – at the Conclave. But the Conclave is almost a year away, Argent. A lot can happen in a year. If I’m lucky, the question of whether or not to support you won’t even come up there, because it’ll all already be settled.” She steps back and closes the door in their face.

“That could’ve gone better,” Chris says wearily.

Allison just gives a tight little smile. “Well, she’s right about one thing,” she says. “A lot can happen in a year.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles spends most of Saturday going over the crime scene photos and evidence with his father. They’re both in agreement that it has to have been a hunter. Stiles is less sure about whether or not a sorcerer was necessary. Marciano had protective spells on his residence, but Deaton has confirmed that if he invited the perpetrator in, they could have been circumvented.

“Admittedly, there was no sign of forced entry,” Tom says. “You think whoever it was talked him or herself into the house?”

“It’s definitely possible,” Stiles says, and shuts the folder. “I don’t know. There was no forced entry at the Walcotts, either. It’s like they knew the killer. But Chris says he’s talked to all his guys. I guess it’s possible that one of them lied to him. Maybe we should interview them ourselves.”

“I’ll look into it,” Tom says. “Chris won’t like it, but it’s possible that Stella could have gotten to one of them.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He’s interested in the killer’s choices. Both the Walcotts and Marcianos were in a very grey area. The killer hadn’t targeted families known to be peaceful, good citizens. So far, the people killed _probably_ deserved it, or at least an argument could be made that way. They hadn’t strayed far enough to deserve execution under the Code, but a lot of hunters didn’t require as much of a preponderance of evidence as Chris did.

When Allison calls and tells him about Stella’s reaction, they agree that it probably wasn’t her. Stiles feels like if Stella truly wanted to challenge them, she would have gone after real innocents.

“I don’t know about that, kiddo,” Tom says. “I’ve done some research into Stella’s history. Regardless of whether or not she’s a fun gal, she seems to truly love and want to protect humans. I don’t see her killing people we know to be peaceful.”

“Like Mikael?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t think she tried to kill Mikael,” Tom says. “Not just from what Allison said. But from what I recall, Stella was truly incensed that Ruben Gutierrez had murdered other hunters. I don’t think she’d strike at Mikael directly like that.” He shakes his head and says, “That one might stay a mystery for a while longer.”

“Since we’re ‘barking up the wrong tree’,” Stiles says. “Ugh, my head hurts. What’s wrong with these people.”

Tom shakes his head. “Go do something fun with your Saturday night. Okay? Promise me.”

Stiles sighs. “Okay, I promise,” he says, and heads back to the den. Jake has asked if he can bring Phil over, and the two of them are there by the time he gets there, and they’re all playing video games in the den. Derek is sitting nearby, sketching but not participating. Stiles gives them all a quick update, and there’s a little bit of debate over what’s going on.

“Why do you think this is happening all of a sudden?” Scott asks, frowning. “It can’t be a coincidence that it happened right after Henry and Rose’s visit.”

“No, probably not,” Stiles says, glancing at Phil. He doesn’t want to talk too much about how horrible Phil’s parents are, but some subjects can only be avoided so long. “We know they didn’t do it. But I wonder if they did some research, found some targets, while they were here, and now Stella, or someone else, is stepping in to do the dirty work. That wouldn’t surprise me. But for now it’s all speculation.”

“Maybe we should pay them a visit, too,” Isaac says.

“I’m a little reluctant to do that because I don’t want to put Phil in any sort of danger,” Stiles says. “But yeah, it’s definitely a possibility.”

“I’d be fine,” Phil says, sitting with his shoulders back and chest puffed out in the posture of a pre-teen boy’s bravado.

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says, tousling his hair. “But still, we don’t want your parents to come back here for any reason, right? So let’s not go getting in their faces. Not now, at least. We’ll see what happens. Maybe Stella will step off now that she sees that we’re onto her.”

They decide to make pizza, which Phil gets very excited about. “Mom never lets me have stuff like this,” he says, watching Stiles roll out the dough. “Ooh! Can I have pepperoni _and_ sausage on mine?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. He’s already dispatched Scott and Isaac to the store while he makes the dough. “Your mom goes for health food, huh?”

“Yeah.” Phil’s nose wrinkles. “Not just like she made us eat salad all the time? But she had nutritional charts and stuff. She only bought organic food and we ate lots of stuff like chard. She said it was healthier than kale. She said she had no idea why kale was so popular. Any time I wanted a snack I got a handful of almonds or blueberries. I don’t even _like_ blueberries.”

Jake comes into the kitchen and gives his brother a playful noogie. “Aunt Victoria made him a peanut butter sandwich yesterday and it was hilarious because he’d never had real peanut butter. And by ‘real’ peanut butter I actually mean fake peanut butter.”

Phil nods, looking sad. “We only had that stuff which is like ground peanuts mixed with water and maybe, if I was lucky, a tiny bit of salt.”

“Being healthy can be fun,” Stiles says. “I try to make my dad eat healthy. But you have to know how to do it. Like, I make spiced apple chips and fruit smoothies and zoodle soup – that’s noodles made out of zucchini – and basically anything with avocado. You can eat healthy without it being gross, but some people take it way too far. Like, people who do juice cleanses and stuff.”

“Oh, ugh, she made me do one of those for _nine days_ once,” Phil says. “I was soooooo sick by the end of it. She was mad at me because I complained on the first day.”

That sounded a lot more like child abuse than healthy living to Stiles, but he keeps his opinion to himself. “Well, take it easy on the pizza. I don’t want you to make yourself sick here, either.”

“Okay, I will,” Phil says.

They sit down to eat about an hour later. Stiles lets Phil help him with chopping peppers and slicing mushrooms. Like Jake when he first arrived, he has that deep-seated need to be helpful. It reminds Stiles of Isaac, actually, back when he first joined the pack and wanted to earn his place there. They sit around and eat and drink soda and talk about Allison’s birthday, which is coming up in a few weeks. Surprise parties are a bad idea for people who lead lives like theirs, but Danny and Lydia have been talking about what kind of things they want to do.

“You wanna stay the night?” Stiles asks Jake and Phil, as they’re doing the dishes.

Phil perks up. “Can I?” he asks.

“I’ll call Aunt Victoria and make sure it’s okay,” Jake says. Unsurprisingly, Victoria is fine with having the house to herself for an evening. Stiles tells them that they can sleep in the guest room, since he suspects a pack cuddle session would freak Phil out a little.

“You know, werewolves aren’t anything like Mom said,” Phil remarks as Stiles roots around for some spare pajamas that might fit him.

“I know,” Jake says. “Believe me, I know.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The third murder took place on a Wednesday in broad daylight. Stiles gets the call from his father that evening to report that an old man on the outskirts of town had been killed. It’s another death of someone who’s morally gray at best, someone that Stiles would never have allowed to live on his territory if he hadn’t been there first. He had asked Chris about it at one point, about the bloodshed during the fifties and sixties that could _almost_ certainly be laid at the man’s door. Almost, Chris had said, and Stiles had let it go at that.

Stiles lies on his bed in the middle of a pile of wolves and stares at the ceiling. None of his theories make sense. Every piece of evidence seems to rule out one of their suspects. Henry and Rose can’t be responsible, and if they had brought anyone with them or bought anyone out, Stiles has no idea who it is. Sheriff Stilinski says that he’s managed to rule out all of Chris’ men throughout a variety of means. And as much as Stiles would love to pin this on Stella Jones, it just doesn’t feel right.

“It could be an honest coincidence,” Peter remarks, when Stiles seeks out his opinion.

“You don’t really believe that,” Stiles replies.

Peter shrugs. He’s sitting on the windowsill in the apartment, translucent and thoughtful. “I’ve seen stranger things. You’re sure it’s a hunter?”

“I’m sure it’s someone using hunter techniques,” Stiles says. “I guess I can’t be one hundred percent certain that it’s a hunter that we know of.”

“Well,” Peter says, “I agree with you that anyone who was actually doing this to challenge you would have chosen targets very differently. They would have chosen allies, people who were close to you. This seems very different. I have to admit that I can’t quite see the reasoning behind it.”

“Nnng,” Stiles says. “You know, it _could_ be Henry. It seems like these are all people who _almost_ deserve execution under the Code.”

“Have you considered that it’s Phil?” Peter asks. Stiles blinks at him. “No, I can see that you haven’t. He is an Argent. He’s been well-trained. He was sparring with Scott and Isaac at the den the other day, and he’s decent. He would know the techniques, could easily procure what he needed from Chris’ stores.”

“Jesus, I . . . I hadn’t thought of that,” Stiles admits. “I’m not even sure how I could go about _asking_. He must have a lot of free time on his hands, too. He could easily slip away from Chris or Victoria for an hour or so and just say he was reading or exploring or whatever twelve-year-old boys do.” He sighs. “Well, I’m going home this weekend. Maybe I can figure it out then.”

“As you say,” Peter says. “But I suspect that this isn’t connected to your larger war. It seems to have very different motives, not that I can say what those are yet.”

“Okay. Hey, what do you think about Mikael Aronsson?”

“You mean, who do I think tried to have him killed?” Peter frowns. “I’m not sure of that, either. Stella was an excellent suspect. But I find it interesting what she did and didn’t deny. She had no problem with Chris knowing that she was stepping onto his territory and killing omegas and other creatures. But she didn’t kill people in Beacon Hills, and she says she knows who killed Mikael and that it wasn’t her. I don’t think she would have said that if it wasn’t true.”

“She’s protective of her fellow hunters,” Stiles says thoughtfully, “but she doesn’t like Mikael very much. She’s had no problem trying to steal pieces of his territory.”

“So she didn’t care enough to get Mikael killed, but she also doesn’t care enough to apprehend who did it,” Peter concludes. “I wonder if that wasn’t hunter politics, either.”

“What?” Stiles asks. “What else would it be?”

Peter shrugs. “Revenge for someone Mikael killed in his line of work. Or perhaps even something personal. People are murdered all the time for the pettiest of reasons. I feel like a hunter would have know he was wearing a vest, would have gone for a headshot or even used a sniper rifle. And they clearly didn’t care about getting caught, either. Just walking up to him in a store and shooting him while he was with his wife and daughter? Hardly circumspect.”

“God knows that’s true,” Stiles says. He sighs and says, “Fuck this. I’d have an easier time solving the disappearance of the Lindberg baby. I’m going to get some sleep.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited about this chapter that I couldn't wait to post it~

 

Stiles sleeps restlessly and has bad dreams. When he wakes up the next morning, he texts his dad about the possibility of Phil being the murderer. Naturally, Tom hates this idea, but he agrees to check into it. He texts Stiles later to say that Phil was accounted for during the murder of Tim Marciano but not either of the others. It’s not as conclusive as Stiles would like.

The entire pack heads home that weekend. Everyone is on high alert. Stiles actually leaves Thursday night, skipping his Friday classes, along with a few of the others. He spends almost all day Friday going around Beacon Hills, talking to different people and reassuring them that he was on the case and that he was doing his best to figure out what was going on. He told everyone that there was no sign of forced entry at any of the crime scenes – something that really pissed his father off, since he wasn’t supposed to share that sort of information – and advised them not to let anyone into their homes unless they were one hundred percent trustworthy.

Deaton went around with him and offered to help do wards for various people and families. Some of them took him up on it, some didn’t. They also identified various threats to different kinds of creatures and Stiles talked about how they could avoid them or work up remedies to treat them, should the worst happened.

By the time the rest of the pack arrives, Friday night, he’s exhausted, and all he wants to do is crawl under his bed for a while. Instead, he gets take-out barbecue and sits down with the pack. They’re safe as houses at the den (usually), but everyone is uneasy.

Stiles meets with his father and Chris Argent the next day, and he’s surprised at how tired Chris looks. There’s a lot more gray at his temples than he remembers seeing even a couple weeks ago. “You okay?” he asks, and Chris snaps that he’s fine. Stiles supposes that he wouldn’t like being asked that any better than Chris does.

“Look, I’ve done what I can for damage control,” Stiles says, and tells Chris about what he’s been doing. Chris grimaces a little, as if to say that he doesn’t really think that will help. “I’m thinking about trying to identify some other likely targets and then setting up surveillance. Can you help me go through the residents and identify the ones that you _would_ kill, if only you had a little bit more evidence?”

“Sure,” Chris says.

Two hours later, he’s left with a list of a dozen houses and a lot of work to do. He feels exhausted again. How is he going to do this? He’s got a test he’s supposed to be studying for, papers he needs to write.

“Maybe I should just take a leave of absence,” he says glumly, looking at the list.

Tom frowns at him. “Why?”

“I don’t know, Dad,” Stiles says. “I just don’t feel like I’m going to be able to keep my grades up while all this bullshit is going on. I should be here. And I know we had an agreement, but you know as well as I do that all this makes the territory look vulnerable. If I’m not even _here_ , that makes it even worse. I just . . . I have to have priorities.”

“Well, it would be nice,” Tom says dryly.

Stiles chews on his pencil and says, “I don’t even know why I’m _going_ to college, Dad. I know you want me to, and I’m enjoying it, but . . . maybe it’s time I came to terms with the fact that this is my life. This is what’s going to take up my time. It’s not like Derek doesn’t make enough money to support us both. It’s not like I _have_ to work.” He sees his father looking skeptical and continues, “What am I going to do, anyway? All the kinds of jobs I would want to take are in big cities. I can’t make a living as a forensic scientist or a cold case detective in Beacon Hills. At most, I could be a regular cop, and you know I can’t really do that, I’m just too fucking jumpy. So what’s the point in any of this?”

“Hey,” Tom says, giving him a light whap upside the head. “You’re way too smart to resign yourself to being a housewife. Not that I don’t have the highest respect for housewives. Your mother was one, and she was one of the most amazing people I’ll ever meet. But you wouldn’t be happy that way, and you know it.” He sighs, looking at the dark circles underneath Stiles’ eyes. “I’m not saying I have all the answers. Or that things will be easy. And maybe you’re right and taking a leave of absence for this semester, until this particular incident is straightened out, is a good idea. But don’t give up on the idea of having a future. Because this war is going to end. And whoever’s targeting you, if it is that Stoddard guy or if it’s somebody else, we’re going to bring him to justice. And you’re going to live the life you want, even if I have to start breaking skulls. Capisce?”

“Okay, Dad,” Stiles says, smiling despite himself. “I guess I’ll see how the next week or so goes before I make a final decision about the semester. Does that seem fair?”

“More than,” Tom says, tousling his hair. “And don’t be too hard on yourself, okay? Nobody expects you to be able to do everything.”

Stiles sighs and gets up. “I’d better get going,” he says. “Allison was going to bring Jake and Phil over for the evening. Hopefully I can get some school work done while everyone else has a Street Fighter tournament.”

“Have fun,” Tom says, waving. Stiles hops in the Jeep and heads back to the den. Everyone’s had dinner with their families, and they trickle in during the next half hour. Stiles makes himself a quick sandwich, since he didn’t eat at his father’s, and thinks about baking something. He reminds himself that he has reading to do.

Allison is the last to arrive, with Jake and Phil in tow. Stiles greets both of them and gives Phil a quick hug and then a Jell-O cup, because he had never had Jell-O before this week and now he’s obsessed with it.

“Everything armed?” Stiles asks Allison in an undertone.

Allison nods. “Gate’s closed and turned on, doors are locked. My mom sent me with some food. She said that Dad mentioned you looked tired and you might not have had a chance to do any baking lately, so . . .” She sets down a cloth bag and starts rooting around in it, pulling out two Zip-loc bags full of homemade garlic bread. “Oh, and last but not least, my dad sent this over,” she adds, pulling out a brown paper lunch bag and setting it down on the table.

“A present from Chris Argent?” Stiles asks, grinning. “What is it?”

“He didn’t tell me, actually,” Allison says, and rolls her eyes. “He said it was a surprise. He even made me promise not to look. I think it has something to do with my birthday being in a couple weeks. He’s probably trying to put something ridiculous together and doesn’t want me to know about it.”

“Well, then, don’t look,” Stiles says, laughing as he unfolds the top of the bag. He’s about to open it when he sees Derek staring at him intensely. “What is it?”

“I’m not . . .” Derek gives a shiver. “Something’s wrong. I don’t think you should open it.”

Stiles stops. He has no idea what might be wrong, but he trusts Derek’s instincts, and he knows that the werewolf has senses that far outstrip his own. “Do you smell something?” he asks, feeling around for what might be happening. He trusts Chris. He’s trusted Chris with his life. “Allison, did your dad give this bag to you directly?”

“Yeah, I didn’t – ” Allison starts.

Before she can finish the sentence, Derek reacts. He grabs the bag from Stiles hands and throws it as hard as he can. It goes through the open window, breaking through the screen. A bare moment later, an explosion goes off that rocks the entire house on its foundations. Stiles goes sprawling onto the floor, as do most of the others.

He fumbles around groggily for a minute, trying to regain his bearings. His ears are ringing and there’s dust and debris everywhere. It’s brighter than before and he thinks parts of the wall have actually disintegrated. The floor is covered in shattered glass.

“Get up!” Derek’s got him around the waist and is dragging him to his feet. Stiles stumbles and nearly falls flat onto his face. Derek keeps him upright while his mind flounders around and tries to figure out what’s going on. Why would Chris send them a bomb? His daughter is here. Jake and Phil are here. Chris is their friend, their ally. Nothing about this makes sense.

They’re halfway to the front door when he hears a loud pop and the high-pitched whine of a bullet going past his ear. Chris Argent has excellent aim, and a portion of his brain notes that the bullet clearly wasn’t for him. As it turns out, it was for Scott, who collapses backwards. Boyd and Isaac have him back on his feet a moment later, and he’s pale but healing.

“Fall back!” Stiles shouts. “Armory!”

There are multiple reasons for this. They’ve never really thought a _lot_ about being attacked at the den; their security is good enough that it hasn’t been a concern. But Chris knows how to get past their security. He helped Stiles design and build it. And since he knows all the loopholes, Stiles knows approximately when and how he’s going to strike. The bomb was meant to kill them if possible and disorient them if not. Then he knows they would make for the front because that was the most accessible entrance.

They could go out the back door, but there are booby traps of Stiles’ own design there. They know how to avoid them and get over the back fence but it would take time and organization. They have neither. So it’s the armory Stiles chooses. It doubles as a panic room. It’s also the only place in the house where they keep non-lethal weaponry like tasers and pepper spray, and he’ll be damned if they shoot Chris before he knows what the fuck is going on.

One thing it isn’t, however, is large. With the entire pack plus Phil crammed in, it’s practically like a sardine can. Danny slams the door shut behind the last person in, but Stiles hesitates before turning the lock. “Count off!” he shouts, and the pack begins calling out numbers. There are too many of them now to do a quick and accurate headcount, especially if people are moving. So he gave each of them a number, in alphabetical order, and now when he needs to make sure everyone is okay, they do a quick role call.

Allison shouts one, the others count off. Jake is “seven and I’ve got Phil”, and Stiles himself is last. He flips the lock and punches in the security code.

Bare moments later, there’s a hard, rapping sound. “I know you’re there,” Chris says.

“Chris, what the _fuck_ ,” Stiles says.

“Don’t tell me that you haven’t always known this would happen,” Chris says, his voice rough. “You didn’t think I would let you cause trouble forever, did you?”

Stiles just stares at the door, unable to think of a valid response. He’s literally got nothing. Allison elbows past him. “Dad! Have you lost your _mind_?”

“Allison, come on out of there,” Chris says. “We’re going to need to talk about this, but I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

“I’m not coming out until you promise you’re not going to hurt my friends!” Allison says.

Chris gives a heavy, drawn out sigh. “They’re not your friends, Allison. I know that you think they are. But think about everything they’ve done. Stiles started a _war_ between the hunters. We have to put a stop to it. We have to stop him.”

Scott taps Stiles on the shoulder and holds up his phone. “No signal,” he mouths. Stiles grimaces but nods. He’s not surprised. Chris is the one who got him the cell phone jammer that he uses, so it makes sense that he would have one of his own. And he wouldn’t want Stiles calling the cavalry – any cavalry.

“Allison, keep trying to, to talk some sense into him,” Stiles says, and turns to the others. He elbows Boyd while doing so and apologizes. The claustrophobia is starting to set in. The armory doesn’t even have any windows. It’s basically a steel reinforced room. Stiles takes a moment to take a few deep breaths and remain calm.

“There’s no back way out of here, is there?” Erica asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “No. We never figured we would need one. We’ve got weapons galore, but in this confined space it would be almost impossible to do anything without causing some sort of chain reaction and killing ourselves as well as him.”

“We could open the door and pepper spray him,” Isaac suggests.

“This is Chris fucking Argent,” Scott says. “You think a little pepper spray is going to slow him down?”

Derek shakes his head. “Scott’s right. We’d need a lot more than that.”

“But this doesn’t make any sense!” Lydia says. “Are you listening to what he’s saying? He sounds like he’s reciting from some sort of manual. It’s the sort of thing you hear when you have a hostage on the phone being told what to say. What if someone’s forcing him to do this? What if they’ve kidnapped Victoria or something?”

“I think you’d need a small army to kidnap Victoria Argent,” Stiles says, “and that army couldn’t save you from what Chris would do afterwards. But you have a point.”

He tunes back in to Allison and Chris’ conversation. Allison is saying, “Dad, I know you. This isn’t you.”

Chris’ reply is, “This was always going to happen. Stiles couldn’t keep me blinded to his nature forever.”

Stiles elbows back over to the door. “Okay, Chris, I’ll bite. What did I do, in the last seventy-two hours, that has you convinced I need to die?”

“It’s not something new,” Chris says. “It’s everything. Everything you’ve done.”

“Can you be a little more specific?” Stiles asks. “Give me examples of what I’ve done to deserve execution under the Code.”

“This has nothing to do with the Code,” Chris says, and that sets off every red alert in Stiles’ brain. He looks at Allison, who just stares at him, open-mouthed.

“It has to be magic,” Scott says. “Seriously, that’s the only answer, right? Someone’s messed with his head.”

That’s the most logical thing Stiles has heard in the past half hour, but it hardly explains everything. Chris has protections against magic, the same ones that he has. When someone had found a way around that over the summer for Stiles, it had taken them weeks to figure out how. They had ruled out almost every possibility. The protection spell that Chris wore would keep him safe from any magic, unless somebody had gotten some of his hair or blood. And Chris is just as careful about those things as he is. It’s not like he allows complete strangers to wander around his house.

An idea suddenly occurs to Stiles. An awful idea that makes his stomach do a sudden barrel roll. He looks over at Phil. Sweet, innocent Phil, who ran away from his hunter parents, their enemies. Whose arrival had predated the beginning of the murders by only a few days. Who wanted to be an _actor_ – who was quite possibly a good enough one to keep all of them blind as to his intentions.

Phil looks as terrified of the rest of them, but that doesn’t convince Stiles. He leans over and murmurs into Derek’s ear. “Tell me if Phil smells afraid.”

Derek gives him a frown, and then his eyes widen slightly as he boards Stiles’ train of thought. He lets out a quiet breath and gently slides through the crowd over to Phil.

“Hey, Chris,” Stiles says, “am I correct in thinking that you murdered the Walcotts?”

“Yeah,” Chris says. His voice is a little further away now. Smart, Stiles thinks. He’s setting up at the end of the hall for a sniper shot. If he stays too close, they might be able to wrestle the gun away from him. The armory is at the end of the hallway; there’s nowhere they’d be able to go except forward, into his sights. But it also gives them room for a plan.

“Can I ask why you did that?”

“Because it was about time that somebody cleaned up Beacon Hills,” Chris replies. Allison covers her mouth with one hand and turns away, looking sick. But Stiles nods, a few of the pieces falling into place. If Chris was under the influence of magic, if someone was _forcing_ him to kill the supernatural residents of Beacon Hills, he would go for people like the Walcotts, like Tim Marciano, people who probably deserved to die even if they can’t prove it.

Stiles looks over at Derek. He’s standing right beside Phil and Jake now, with one comforting hand on Jake’s shoulder. He shakes his head at Stiles.

“So,” Stiles says, letting out a slow breath. To Derek, he says, “Hold him.”

“What?” Jake asks, turning to look questioningly between Derek and Stiles. But Derek is already moving. He has Phil by one wrist and has twisted him around, pinning him up against the wall. Jake lets out a surprised yelp, as do several of the others. Stiles pushes his way over and grabs Phil’s phone out of his back pocket.

“Hey, let me go!” Phil sounds terrified. “Jake, help me!”

“Stiles, what – what are you doing?” Jake asks, torn between helping his brother and knowing that Stiles probably has a reason for what’s happening.

Stiles is studying the text history. “Wow, you sure text your dad a lot, given that you ran away from home and he’s not supposed to know where you are,” he says, and Jake’s eyes go wide. He lets out a helpless, wounded noise. “What’s up with that?”

“Let me go!” Phil shouts again, but he sounds less afraid and more angry now.

“Yeah, that ain’t gonna happen.” Stiles is quickly scrolling through the text messages. “So, you’ve been telling your father everything that happened since you got here. That’s nice. You obviously smuggled them some of Chris’ hair, or he wouldn’t be acting like a fucking lunatic. Anything else you’ve been doing that I should know about?”

“I’m not going to tell you anything!”

“Phil, why?” Jake asks, pushing both hands through his hair. “Why – why would you do this? Aunt Victoria and Uncle Chris were so nice to you, they, they took you in even though it could’ve gotten them in trouble, everyone here wanted to help you!”

“They’re just liars, you’re all liars – ”

Stiles’ mouth thins. He doesn’t have time to try to get through to Phil, who’s obviously been brainwashed by his parents. “We’ve got zip-ties in here?” he asks, and Allison nods. “Okay. Secure him – gently. And watch him. He might only be twelve, but he’s an Argent.”

“Okay.” Allison pulls out a bag of zip-ties and tosses it to Isaac. A minute later, Phil is trussed up like a turkey and has gone sullen and quiet. Stiles rubs his hands over his face. Chris is under the influence of black magic, and there’s absolutely nothing Stiles can do about it. Not while he’s trapped in this tiny room with no way out, no phone, no nothing. They’ll have to get Chris back to Deaton’s – somehow.

“I can wait all day, Stiles,” Chris says from outside. “I brought rations. Pretty sure you didn’t.”

“Hey,” Derek says quietly. “I just figured something out. What was bothering me about the bag. You asked me if I smelled something. Well, the answer is yes, but I couldn’t figure out why it affected me like that until I had a minute to think about it. It was perfume. Kate’s perfume.”

Stiles blinks up at him. Then he looks at the door. “Then Chris is still fighting the spell,” he says. “He had to obey, but it didn’t stop him from adding something that he knew would convey a warning, even if the spell didn’t realize and stop him.”

Derek nods. “Yeah.”

Stiles thinks about that for another moment. Then he speaks quietly to make sure Chris can’t hear him in the hallway. “We have exactly one thing going for us, which is that he seems very reluctant to kill Allison. We’ve got grenades in here, right?”

“A few, yeah,” Scott says.

“Okay.” Stiles nods slowly. “Allison, are you willing to bet your life on the fact that your father won’t let you get killed?”

“Absolutely,” Allison says.

“I wish we could see where he was standing,” Stiles says.

Derek presses his ear against the crack of the door. Everyone falls silent while he listens. After what seems like an eternity, he says, “He’s about twenty feet away. That’s my best guess. A few feet in front of the entry to the living room.”

“Okay,” Stiles says again. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he continues, and outlines the plan quickly. Everyone retreats to the opposite end of the armory. Stiles hands the grenade to Derek, who crouches by the door.

“Dad?” Allison lets her voice waver. “I’m coming out, okay? Don’t shoot me.”

“Just you,” Chris warns. “Anyone else, I’ll shoot.”

“Okay.” Allison undoes the security and then steps out into the hallway. Stiles glances after her but pulls back quickly. Chris is holding a rifle, and he has it up, but not specifically aimed. His finger isn’t on the trigger. When nobody comes out behind Allison, he lowers it. “I just want to talk without that wall between us,” she says.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Chris says. “Come over here and get behind me.”

Allison takes a slow step forward. Derek takes a quick glance in the hallway to gauge her position. Then he pulls the pin out of the grenade and tosses it down the hallway, keeping it low so it’ll hit the floor and bounce.

Chris sees it immediately and shouts, “Get down!”

Then, as Stiles had hoped he would, he jumps on Allison and knocks her to the floor, their momentum carrying them almost all the way down to the door to the armory and out of the blast range of the grenade. It goes off a few moments later with a coughing pop that destroys about half their living room.

Before Chris can even think, Allison has the stun gun out of her belt and jams it into her father’s ribs. His body goes tense and rigid, spasming helplessly. She pulls back a few moments later. “Dad?” she says cautiously. Chris Argent is more than capable of faking unconsciousness. When he doesn’t respond, she presses the stun gun under his chin. “If you’re still awake, don’t make me use this,” she says, as Derek and Scott jog out into the hallway with the bag of zip-ties. But Chris doesn’t twitch as they get him secured.

Stiles takes a few moments to breathe again. “Hey, we all survived, yay,” he says, trying not to look at the mess that’s been made of the den.

Allison looks up at him. “We’ve got to get him to Deaton’s,” she says.

“Yep,” Stiles says. “Erica, Isaac. Take Jake and Phil down to the police station, put Phil in holding, tell my dad I’ll explain later. Scott, call Deaton and tell him we’re on the way. Allison, call your mother. We have no way of knowing if she’s been compromised too, so don’t tell her what happened – just tell her that you need to talk to her and have her come to Deaton’s. If she tries to kill us, well, at least he’ll be right there to help stop her. Derek, Boyd, Danny, all three of you are to keep your eyes on Chris at _all_ times. Don’t even fucking _blink_. Clear? Okay, let’s go.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had mentioned at the beginning that lack of agency was a theme and now you all know why... there's going to be a lot about that in this chapter and the long-term emotional consequences for Chris. Hey, we torture our faves, right? (Chris does not think that's any comfort whatsoever.)

 

There are times that Stiles wonders if he’s ever going to get over his claustrophobia. He can handle it without panic attacks now, at least for short periods of time, but he’s never going to be comfortable in small spaces. He really wishes Deaton had a workshop somewhere other than his basement, but he can’t exactly suggest that.

At the moment, however, he’s thoroughly distracted from all of that by what’s going on. It took about five minutes to explain things to Deaton, who then had them bring Chris down into his workshop. Allison, Scott, and Stiles accompanied him. Chris is still unconscious, fortunately, lying on the floor inside Deaton’s copper circle. That surprises Stiles, and he wonders if the act of fighting against the spell had been physically tiring for him.

He’s also distracted by the fact that Allison looks like she’s ready to leap across the room and start clawing Deaton’s eyes out. “What do you mean, you’re not sure?” she asks.

Deaton lifts his hands in that passive gesture of surrender that often makes Stiles want to punch him in the face. He respects Deaton, but the veterinarian can drive all of them crazy sometimes. “Allison, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. It isn’t as – ”

“Oh, no, I understand the gravity perfectly well,” Allison spits out. “I understand that somebody mind-raped my father and you’re going to fix it.”

Deaton doesn’t flinch. “It isn’t as easy as just negating the spell. I can do that without difficulty, but it might not have the effect that you want.”

Scott puts his arms around Allison from behind, folding them over her chest in a gesture that’s meant to comfort but not restrain. “How so?” he asks.

“Consider what had to be done to get Chris to this point,” Deaton says, gesturing to the unconscious man in the circle. “This spell had to literally invalidate everything he’s spent the last four years of his life working towards. The understanding, the compromises. It took all of that and convinced him that it was untrue, that he had been lying to himself, that he had been used and deceived.”

“Which is why we need to undo it, pronto,” Stiles says.

“But just negating the spell won’t do that,” Deaton says. “Allison, let’s say that – you suddenly found out that Scott had never loved you,” he says, and Allison and Scott both shudder. “But that he had been using you for your own ends. You’d fight against that, wouldn’t you? You would tell yourself it wasn’t true. But it would keep hammering at you. Imagine the enormity of the evidence weighing on you. You wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it. You would struggle against it every step of the way and it would eventually drag you down. And let’s say that just as you had gotten to acceptance of that – you found out that he _did_ love you. That it had been a trick.”

“Jesus,” Scott says in a low voice.

“Spells like this can _destroy_ people,” Deaton says. “This spell took something that was, was at the _core_ of Chris Argent, that he had built his entire life on, and not only invalidated it, but forced him to _accept_ that invalidation, to _act on_ that invalidation. And now if we simply – undo that – it will be just as messy as the original spell was.”

“Sort of a reverse mind-whammy,” Stiles says, pushing both hands through his hair. “But what else can we do? We can’t leave him like this.”

“I know,” Deaton says. “And if you want me to proceed, I will. But I had to make sure you were fully aware of the consequences first. He’s going to be confused, hurt. He won’t trust you, and he won’t trust himself. It could take months, _years_ , to fully heal the damage. And that’s if it ever heals at all. People have gone insane, have killed themselves, as a result of spells like this.”

Allison stares at her father’s body for a long minute, and her jaw sets. “He’s strong,” she says. “And so are we. He’ll fight through it. We’ll make sure he’s okay.”

Deaton nods. “Okay. Allison, you can stay. Scott, Stiles – let us have some space.”

Stiles is happy to escape the basement. Scott is more reluctant, but he allows Stiles to tug him up the stairs and back into the clinic. He goes out to the lobby to update the others. Stiles sits on the edge of the exam table and waits. He’s surprised a minute later when the door opens and Victoria Argent walks in. “Oh, uh,” he says, grimacing. “I have to – ”

“Lydia and Derek explained things to me,” Victoria says. “I don’t believe I’ve been affected, although I suppose anything is possible. I’ll let Deaton work dispelling magic on me once he’s finished with Chris, just to be on the safe side.” She shakes her head slightly. “Chris had been acting strangely for the last week or two. I figured it was stress. Apparently I should have pushed the issue.”

“Right, okay, but you might want to talk to Deaton before he – ”

“I don’t need to,” Victoria says. “I’m well aware of the consequences of this sort of magic.”

“Oh,” Stiles says again, and they sit in silence.

Several minutes go by. Then there’s a sudden shout from the basement. “Where am I?” Chris demands. “What – what happened?”

Allison’s voice is quieter, and Stiles can’t quite pick up the words, only the generally soothing tone that she’s using.

“No, that – that isn’t – ” There’s a crash, something being knocked to the ground. “I can’t – I’m not – ”

Victoria gets to her feet and smoothes down her skirt. “I need to go attend to my husband,” she says, and turns to look at Stiles. “Under normal circumstances, I would deal with this myself. But Chris is going to need me with him. Therefore I’m going to have to entrust this to you. You find the people who did this to him, and you make them pay. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Stiles says. He stands up as well. “I need a plane from here to Chicago. Normally I would ask Chris, but . . .”

“I’ll set it up and text you the information.” Victoria heads over to the trap door and goes down without another word.

“Vicky – ” Chris’ voice is hoarse, almost . . . _frightened_. Stiles has never heard him like that before. “Vicky, what’s happening to me?”

Stiles doesn’t wait to hear the answer. He heads out to the lobby. The rest of the pack is gathered there, and he sits down with them, not saying anything. Scott has already told them what’s going on. Stiles only manages to sit down for a couple minutes before he’s up and pacing. “Look, I’m going to go deal with Phil,” he finally says. “Derek, you’re with me. The rest of you wait here.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Phillip Argent has a sulk on that would make teenaged Jackson proud. His arms are folded over his chest and his lower lip is stuck out in a pout. He refuses to look at any of them as Stiles walks into the holding cell with Derek behind him. Jake is sitting in the corner, knees pulled up to his chest. “He won’t talk to me,” he says, distress coloring his voice.

Stiles tousles his hair automatically. “It’s okay. You need a break. Erica, Isaac, why don’t you take Jake and go get us some coffee?”

Erica nods and slings her arm around Jake’s shoulders, giving Phil a dirty look as they leave the office.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Phil says, “So now that you’ve gotten rid of him, what are you going to do to me?”

It’s an excellent question, really. Stiles studies Phil for a long minute while he glowers, thinks about what he knows about the Argent family. Enormous pressure has been put on Phil to succeed at this, he’s sure of that. He’s been indoctrinated to see them as enemies, and unless Stiles can break him out of that mindset, they’re not going to get anywhere. Nobody in the universe can be as stubborn as a preteen with a grudge.

“So,” he finally says, letting the word come out slowly. “Here’s what I know. Your mom and dad really hate me, and probably hate their cousin. They’ve convinced you that we’re the bad guys. They’ve told you that the family honor, their reputation, rests on this mission they’ve given you.” Stiles glances at Derek, who squeezes his hand. Phil’s heart rate is up; Stiles’ words are hitting home. “And I have to hand it to you, buddy, you’ve done a great job. Your infiltration was a complete success. None of us suspected you in the slightest. Let me be the first to say that you have a great future ahead of you if you do go on to become an actor. You’re _good_ , kid. We never would have caught you if things hadn’t gone south.”

“So what?” Phil retorts, still glaring.

“Well, so now I’ve got a problem,” Stiles says. “I’d really like to know who was giving you your instructions. Because you may have been given this mission by your parents, but I really don’t think they’re the ones who came up with it. No, someone else is behind this, and I need to know who, and what their next move is. Because somehow I feel like they expected this to fail.”

Phil shrugged. “Yeah, well, I’m not going to tell you anything. It doesn’t matter what you do to me.”

“Is that right?” Stiles asks. “Your parents prepared you for that, huh? They told you about how I’m going to torture you.”

“They said you put them in a pit and didn’t give them any food or water,” Phil says. “I can handle that.”

“Why do I feel like you know that from personal experience?” Stiles asks, his jaw tightening. “I’m going to have a few questions for your parents about exactly what sort of ‘preparation’ you did. But that’s a story for another time. As it happens, that’s not true. I _threatened_ to stop giving them food and water, but I never actually _did_. I doubt they mentioned that.”

“You’re nothing but a liar,” Phil retorts. “They told me that you’d lie.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says. “And so now I’m supposed to torture you to get my information. What do you think of that, Phil? That they sent you to do a job that they knew might end in you getting tortured?”

Phil’s jaw sticks out stubbornly. “That they know I can handle it.”

Stiles heaves a long sigh. “Kid, let me tell you a universal truth: everybody breaks. It doesn’t matter how much they’ve prepared, it doesn’t matter how proud or how strong they are. When I met Peter Hale, he forced me to help him find my friend, and I did it. I wasn’t proud of myself, but I did it. And later, that friend told me that he’d rather I be alive and have betrayed him than been loyal and dead. That’s the way the real world works, Phil.”

“You can kill me if you want,” Phil says. “I’m not going to say anything.”

After a long moment, Stiles just shakes his head. “Okay, buddy,” he says. “That’s how it goes, I guess.” He sits down with his phone and starts tapping at the screen. Phil watches him suspiciously. Stiles does this for several minutes, then stands up and says, “Okey dokey. Let’s go. You’ve got a plane to catch.”

“I’ve got a – what?” Phil asks, flummoxed.

“I can’t torture you, Phil. I’m not going to hurt a kid, especially not one who’s been brainwashed into helping the bad guys. There’s nothing I can do to you, so if you’re not going to talk, I’m going to put you on a plane back to your folks. It leaves in a couple hours, so we’d better get going. It’s just a little commuter plane out of Beacon Hills. You’ll have to catch the connecting flight in Fresno on your own. Will you be able to do that okay?”

“You – you can’t just – ” Phil stammers, but then recovers. “You’re lying again, you’re just pretending to be nice to me.”

“Sure, kid. C’mon.” Stiles gets him uncuffed from the wall and holds onto his wrist, towing him out to the car. Phil is still protesting as Stiles puts him in the Jeep. Jake and the others have caught up with them. Stiles sends Erica and Isaac to Deaton’s clinic, and then ushers Jake and Phil into the backseat while Derek sits in the front. Stiles turns the car on and heads to the airport. “I’d ask if you need to get your stuff, but I guess you showed up with nothing, huh?” he says. “The whole ‘ran away from home’ shtick. And I don’t see any reason to let you keep the stuff Chris and Victoria got you.”

“You can’t do this!” Phil says.

“Why not?” Stiles asks.

“It’s just – it’s not what you’re supposed to do!”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure it is,” Stiles says. “I’m pretty sure that, even if you were told that I would hurt you, or imprison you, or try to do magic on you, that those aren’t things I should do. So I’m going to send you home, where hopefully, you’ll be safe. That is absolutely what I’m supposed to do with a twelve-year-old who’s gotten caught up in his parents’ war.”

Phil falls silent, trying to hold on to his sulk, but failing. He goes pale when they actually pull into the airport parking lot.

“Okay, let’s move,” Stiles says, turning the Jeep off.

Jake nods and slides out of the back, subdued and silent. He tugs Phil with him. Derek scowls but trails after them silently. Stiles heads into the airport and checks his watch. “Let’s get you a sandwich and a drink or something to bring on the plane with you,” he says. “The flight will be four or five hours and I don’t know if they’ll serve anything. Jake, why don’t you run and grab him something and then meet us at the gate?” he adds, and Jake nods, trotting off towards the small convenience store that the airport has.

“Why are you doing this?” Phil whines.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Stiles says again.

“You can’t!” Phil’s lower lip is trembling. “You can’t just send me home! They’ll – they’ll be mad at me! The plan didn’t work and they’re gonna be really mad!”

“I’m sure they’ll understand,” Stiles says, still heading towards the security gate.

“They won’t! They don’t – they don’t understand anything! Please, you can’t – you can’t make me go home!”

“Well, you can’t stay here,” Stiles says, not slowing his pace. “Because I can’t trust you, Phil. You tried to hurt my pack, and you succeeded in hurting my friend. How do I know that this isn’t some new act? That now you’re going to make me feel bad for you, and use that as a way to get back into my good graces?”

“You don’t have to, you can, can keep me locked up or something, just please, please don’t send me home,” Phil says. “Mom’s gonna be so mad at me!”

“We’ve already been over how I can’t lock you up, remember?” They’ve reached the gate. Stiles takes out the boarding pass he had printed and smiles at the women in the security uniform. “He’s flying alone, can you look after him?” he asks, and she nods. Advantages to small town airports, he thinks. Plus he thinks he knows her. Her face is familiar. So many people in Beacon Hills know him and the pack that it doesn’t surprise him anymore.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” Phil says. “Please don’t make me go. Stiles, please.”

Stiles sighs. He says, “Hang on,” to the security guard, and walks over to a row of chairs nearby. He sits down and pats the seat next to him. Phil slumps into it. “Look, kid,” he says, “you’ve got to understand that you’ve kind of got me between a rock and a hard place here. I can’t trust you, but I can’t keep you locked up, and you don’t want me to send you home. What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, I just,” Phil rubs a hand over his eyes. “I don’t know what to do either, none of this makes sense, you guys have been so nice to me and you’re not anything like what my mom and dad said and now you, I thought you would try to make me tell you stuff and it’s not, it doesn’t make any sense.” He snuffles a little and says, “If I tell you everything, can I stay?”

“No,” Stiles says, and sees his eyes go wide with panic. “Phil, I can’t trust you. What if you told me a bunch of lies?”

“I wouldn’t!” Phil says. “Can’t you tell? I thought werewolves could tell!”

“It’s not really an exact science,” Stiles says. “It doesn’t quite work like that. And some of this is really important, Phil. If you lie, it could compromise the safety of my pack. I mean, you obviously passed some hair or something of Chris’ off to whoever your contact was. You could tell me you hadn’t taken anything else, when you had, and if I believed you – ”

“I did, though,” Phil says miserably. “I took some of Aunt Victoria’s, too.”

Stiles sighs. “What about Jake’s?”

“No, not Jake’s. They didn’t want Jake’s. They said he was a l-lost cause.” Phil snuffles again. “Please, Stiles, please can’t I stay?”

“No,” Stiles says again. “But if you tell me everything, I’ll send you to stay with your Uncle Julien, instead of sending you home.”

“Okay,” Phil says. “Okay, Jake says Uncle Julien is nice. I could do that.”

“Okay, c’mon,” Stiles says. “Let’s go talk to my dad, okay?”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It’s times like this that Stiles is very glad that he has such an awesome father he can count on. It’s not that he’s bad with kids, precisely, but he doesn’t have a lot of experience with them. His father somehow manages to put Phil at ease without giving the impression that he’ll be a pushover. They wind up sitting in the sheriff’s office while Phil hugs his arms across his stomach, studying the floor. Jake is sitting next to him, looking anxious, while Derek waits outside.

“Everything was different after the last Conclave,” Phil finally says. “Mom and Dad fought all the time. I mean, they would fight a lot before, but they fought _all the time_. They argued about whose fault the whole thing was. It was like . . . all they talked about. Dad still . . .” He glances over at Jake nervously but then continues. “Dad still insisted that Jake, um, wasn’t his son.”

Stiles also glances over at Jake, but he doesn’t look surprised by this. He suspects that Jake has been aware of the possibility for some time, if not the fact. Stiles doesn’t know whose son Jake is, but it isn’t Henry Argent’s. Curly hair is a dominant trait and both Rose and Henry Argent have straight hair.

“Around the same time is when they took me out of school,” Phil says. “I was supposed to start middle school, but they decided to home school me instead. Dad started taking me out on hunts while mom taught me hunter history and strategy and creature lore and all that stuff. She gave me tests _every_ day, and I got . . . punished . . . if I didn’t do well enough.”

He falters then, and Tom gives his wrist a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay, son. Take your time.”

Phil swallows. “They said it was really important that I learned and did well. That they were only so hard on me because it was for my own good. And they told me that . . . they only had to do that because Jake had left, that it wouldn’t matter if he hadn’t. I wanted to hate you,” he adds, gaze flickering over to his brother again, “but I couldn’t. I got your letters where you told me fun stories and encouraged me to act and listened, really listened to what I said when I wrote you, and . . . it was the only thing I looked forward to.”

There’s a long silence while he shuffles his feet back and forth. “I sort of figured that you, you had been tricked or something. That maybe I could get you back and then Mom and Dad would take it easier on me. I knew they wouldn’t want that, but I still thought maybe I could do it.” He chews on his lower lip. “Then over the summer, Mom told me that they were going to send me here. That I was going to have this big important mission. And some days she would tell me that I’d better not screw up and some days she’d tell me she _knew_ I wouldn’t screw up, that I was the only one who could do it. She said it would be easy. That all I needed to do was get Uncle Chris and Aunt Victoria to let me stay for a few days and get a hair from each of them. If I _could_ stay longer, could learn about the pack and everything, that would be better, but that first part was the _really_ important part.”

“And you did it,” Stiles says, just to confirm.

Phil nods. “I was only here a couple days before I got it. It was easy. Aunt Victoria was out shopping and Jake was at school. Uncle Chris went down into the basement and he was doing some sort of supply inventory so I knew he would be a while. Then when my mom and dad came to town to ‘look for me’, I snuck out and gave it to them.”

“Okay,” Tom says. “What else did you give them? Anything?”

“Not, like, stuff,” Phil says. “But I texted them a lot. Like, Chris would talk about things going on and I would eavesdrop and then . . .” His voice trails off miserably.

“How about we take a look at your phone?” Tom asks, and Stiles hands it over while Phil studies the floor. Tom scrolls through the back and forth messages for a long minute before he sets the phone down and says to Stiles, “I think we’re going to need some time to go through this in detail.”

Stiles grimaces, because that probably means Phil had told them a lot, and from the brief look he had taken, he agrees. “We’ll deal with that later, I guess. Phil, do you know anything about who’s actually doing the magic on Chris?”

Phil shakes his head. “Nuh uh. I know it isn’t my mom or dad, though.”

“Do you have any idea who came up with this plan?” Stiles asks. “Did they ever say anything about someone else being involved?”

“No, but . . .” Phil looks up. “Dad took a lot of phone calls, sometimes at weird times. I don’t know who he was talking to, but he seemed really nervous afterwards. Then he would go talk to my mom and sometimes after that, they would tell me stuff about the plan.”

Stiles looks at his father. “Phone records?”

“That’s on you, kiddo,” Tom says. “You’re going to have to use that computer witchery of yours that I know nothing about. I don’t have cause to get a warrant.”

“Okay.” Stiles takes Phil’s phone to find out what his father’s number is, then texts it to Danny with instructions. “Are you sure your parents are back in Illinois now?” he asks.

“I think so. They should be, anyway. Since I was doing okay, they said they would just keep in touch by text. Dad didn’t want to stay because of all the other stuff going on. Something about an ogre hunt, I’m not sure.”

“All right.” Stiles huffs out a breath. He doesn’t like the idea of putting Phil on a plane by himself, and he doesn’t like the idea of leaving him unsupervised, but he doesn’t like the idea of splitting up the pack, either. He can’t leave Phil with Victoria, because God only knows what’s going to happen with Chris, and he’s nervous about getting his father too involved. Unfortunately, he doesn’t see much of a choice. “Dad, can you keep an eye on him for me? I’m going to head to Illinois and have a little chat with his parents.”

Tom’s jaw tightens, and he looks at Phil as if considering his options for a few long minutes. “Why don’t I call the local police and have his parents arrested?” he finally asks.

Phil’s eyes go wide with panic, but Stiles is already shaking his head. “I need to know who their sorcerer is, make sure I get everything Phil took from Chris and Victoria, and I need to know whose idea this was. It sure as hell wasn’t theirs. Once the police have them in custody, I’ll lose my shot to talk to them.”

“Okay, but why don’t we call them here?” Tom asks. He clearly doesn’t like the idea of his son flying halfway across the country to confront hunters on their own territory. “Have Phil text them to let them know things went wrong and he needs their help?”

“We can’t risk tipping them off,” Stiles says. “I’ll be fine, Dad. I’m not afraid of Henry and Rose Argent.”

Tom still looks unhappy, and starts grasping as straws. “You have school tomorrow – ”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not thrilled about it either, but none of us will die if we miss a couple days.” Seeing that his father is just nervous, Stiles adds, “Hey, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll call Julien and have him meet me there. He might have better luck with them than me anyway.”

Tom huffs out a breath and says, “Yeah, okay. And yes, Melissa and I can keep an eye on Phil for you.”

“Cool. I have to go check in with . . . like a dozen different people. I’ll let you know once I have my flight info.” He stands up and then reaches out to squeeze Jake’s shoulder. “You stay with your brother, keep him safe, okay?” he says, and Jake nods. Stiles leaves the office and heads back to Deaton’s clinic.

The majority of the pack is still in Deaton’s waiting room. Stiles heads for the inner door, but Scott stands up and stops him. “They brought Chris up from the basement a little while ago,” he says. “When I tried to go in there, he uh . . . kind of tried to kill me a little. So you probably don’t want to try it.”

“Jesus,” Stiles says. He takes out his phone and texts Allison to let her know that he’s back. She comes out of the back of the clinic a few minutes later. “Hey, how’s your dad doing?” he asks, wrapping his arms around Allison’s shoulders.

She lets out a breath. “He’s . . . okay. He’s so God damned confused.” Her voice breaks. “I think he’s not sure what of the last month is real and what’s not. I thought about just telling him it had all been a nightmare, but I guess I can’t really do that, because it’s going to affect us going forward. So I didn’t.” She takes another deep breath to steady herself. “How are things on your end?”

“Well, I managed to un-indoctrinate Phil a little,” Stiles says, and gives them a brief summary of what’s happened so far. “Danny, any luck on that info I sent you?”

Danny, who’s been sitting in the corner of the room with his laptop, looks up and shakes his head. “Well, sort of,” he modifies. “I mean, yes, I got Henry Argent’s phone records. And yes, he does have a lot of recent calls at odd times from another number that had never been in his phone records before a couple months previous. But it doesn’t help much. It’s a burner phone, no way to trace it.”

Stiles chews on his lower lip. “What area code is it?” he asks.

“Uh . . . 413.” Danny types for a minute. “Western Massachusetts.”

“Stoddard,” Stiles says, with a nod. “Okay. That’s at least a _little_ helpful, even if it’s not conclusive. Allison, will you get in touch with Julien and ask him to meet me in Peoria?”

“Sure,” she says. “Oh, and Mom has your flight all set up. It leaves first thing in the morning, eight AM.”

“Cool,” Stiles says. “We can get some sleep first. That’s probably not a bad thing.”

“Yeah.” Allison shifts uncomfortably. “Stiles, I want to go with you to Illinois, but I can’t. I have to stay here with my dad. He’s much more grounded when Mom and I are with him.”

Stiles nods in agreement. “Yeah. That should be your priority. We can split into two groups for now, much as I don’t like to split up unless we have to. I’m sure as hell not leaving you here alone. Derek will want to go with me, and Scott will stay with you . . .”

Allison seems to be calming down. “Scott should go with you so you have a medic with you.”

“I’ll take Boyd. Scott’s been teaching you most of that stuff, right?” Stiles asks, glancing over at the other teenager, who nods. Scott puts an arm around Allison’s waist and gives her a little squeeze as Stiles looks around, mentally dividing the pack in half. “Why don’t you keep Isaac with you? He’s one of the best fighters. Erica, Lydia, you’re with me. Then I can take Danny and Mac can stay. That way we’ll each have a computer person, in case we need one. Does that sound good to everyone?” he asks, and there’s a round of nods.

“Okay,” Allison says, nodding as well. “Okay, thanks.”

Stiles squeezes her hand. “I’d want to stay in your shoes. You don’t have to thank me. Scott can stay the night here with you, but try to get some sleep, okay?” he adds, and she nods again. The pack splits up into twos and threes to get their things together. Stiles heads back to the den with Derek. The others meet them there after they’ve gotten their things together.

He doesn’t even try to sleep. He can nap on the plane, and he’s far too keyed up to actually get any sleep without drugging himself. Instead, he bakes. He makes muffins to bring with them on the trip and cookies for the people who are staying behind. The plane ride will take four or five hours, and since it’s a chartered flight, there won’t be any flight attendants or meals, so he makes a bunch of sandwiches and packs it all away in a cooler with some drinks and some fruit.

Despite his words of reassurance to his father, he’s not sure exactly what they’re going to _do_ once they’re in Illinois. He has confidence that he can outsmart Henry and Rose Argent, but someone is pulling their strings, and there’s so much going on that he doesn’t seem to know about. But there’s no point in freaking out until he’s gotten the lay of the land.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about aerodynamics is what I learned in ten minutes on Wikipedia. =D

 

At seven AM, Stiles wakes the others. They take quick showers and eat some breakfast before splitting into two groups. Isaac and Mac go to check in with Allison and Scott, and the rest of them head down to the airport. Victoria has given them specific instructions on where to go. Each of them has a backpack full of things, but they’ve all packed light. Stiles, with his backpack and his laptop bag, along with the cooler, has more than anyone else.

The pilot is a friendly, competent guy who introduces himself as Franklin. Stiles is moderately interested in piloting, and since it’s a small plane, Franklin offers to let him sit up front and watch during take-off. Stiles watches in interest as he goes through the pre-flight checklist. “We’ll be touching down at Peoria’s municipal airport at about three PM local time,” he says, after they’re in the air.

“Cool,” Stiles says, and heads into the back to get some sleep. He’s never been on a small aircraft before, and is surprised at how much more roomy it is than a commercial airliner. He supposes that probably has a lot to do with how much they’re paying for it.

Despite how tired he is, sleep proves elusive. He wonders how Chris is doing, whether or not Phil is okay, what’s happening. After a while, he gives up on sleep and wanders back up front to strike up a conversation with Franklin about what types of planes he’s flown and how difficult it is to get a pilot’s license.

They’ve been in the air for about an hour when their conversation peters out. Stiles stays up in the front, watching the scenery, thinking things over. Another ten minutes or so have passed when he hears a noise that breaks him out of his reverie. He glances over at Franklin to see that he’s breathing somewhat heavily. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, I just . . . suddenly feel a little dizzy,” Franklin says.

Every alarm bell in Stiles’ head goes off. His gaze flickers to the row of gauges and buttons and thinks, abstractly, _so this is how I die_. He banishes the thought immediately. “Does this thing have auto-pilot? I mean, could you go lie down for a while?”

It looks like Franklin is about to answer but he suddenly jerks backwards, his body going rigid. Stiles swears and shouts, “Boyd! Erica!” and the two of them crowd into the cockpit.

Erica’s response is an immediate, “Why the _fuck_ is our pilot having a seizure?” and she would know if anyone would. She and Boyd hastily get him out of his seat, lying him down on the floor as his body convulses. “I can’t even get my driver’s license and this guy is flying a plane?”

“No medic-alert,” Boyd says, rolling him onto his side.

Stiles looks helplessly at the rows of controls, but for the moment they seem okay. The plane cruises along serenely, as if it has no idea that nobody is flying it. He grabs the radio and says, “Mayday, mayday, this is . . . a plane that probably has a callback number but I don’t know it, does anybody copy?” He releases the button on the radio but hears nothing but static.

“Okay, this is bad,” Boyd says, and people in the back are clamoring to know what’s going on.

“How is he?” Stiles asks, shaking the radio as if this will help.

Boyd looks up, already starting chest compressions. “Stiles, he’s not breathing.”

“You’re fucking – ” Stiles bites off the words because they won’t help. “Okay, okay, we’ll handle this. Uh, try to move him to the back, keep doing, you know - ” He gestures wildly, scrambling over them and into the back. “Danny, you’re good with computers, do you know anything about how to fly a plane?”

“You’re joking, right?” Danny asks, eyes wide.

“Come on, you guys, we all play video games, someone must know something about how to fly a plane,” Stiles says.

“Uh, yeah, if you don’t know how, then _don’t_ ,” Danny retorts.

Stiles chews on his lip. “Lydia?”

She heads up to the cockpit with him. Franklin has explained some of the dials and gauges, so he isn’t completely clueless. They manage to puzzle out what a few other things mean from context. Stiles is beginning to think that they might actually get through this when the plane gives a strange little shudder.

“Oh no,” Lydia says, and slides into the pilot’s seat.

“What just happened?” Stiles demands.

“I think the engine just crapped out,” she says, and they both watch as the plane starts to lose altitude. “We need to land. Now,” she says, and then points the plane sharply downwards. There are yelps from the back.

“What, why?” Stiles asks, clinging to her seat. “Can’t we just glide?”

Lydia shakes her head. “No. We’ll lose speed and then we’ll stall, and if we stall, we drop like a rock.”

“How can we stall if the engine is – ”

“Aerodynamic stall! It’s different from mechanical stall. It’s what happens when there isn’t enough air flowing around the wings to generate lift. Trust me! If we point the noise down, gravity will keep your speed up and lift will keep us in the air. It’s going to be the difference between a crash and a crash landing.”

“Okay, you just . . . do what you can,” Stiles says. He’s startled when Derek grabs him. “Oh my God! What?”

“We need to get you off this plane,” Derek says. “There are a couple parachutes we found in the back. The rest of us can probably survive a crash landing, but you’re human.”

“Right. Right.” Stiles scrambles towards the back of the plane and grabs one of the parachutes. He sees a second one and says, “You stay with the others. I’ll take Erica with me,” he adds, and Derek nods, grabbing the girl by the elbow. Stiles has the parachute halfway on when a terrible thought seizes him. “Wait. No. I can’t.”

“What? Why not? Stiles, if we crash – ”

“Think about this,” Stiles says. He takes the backpack off and thrusts it at Derek. “It can’t be a coincidence that our pilot dropped dead. None of this can be a coincidence. Someone poisoned our pilot, took out our radio, and sabotaged our engine. What are the fucking odds that they didn’t think to cut a few straps on the parachutes?”

“Jesus.” Derek pushes both hands through his hair. “We can’t know – ”

“And there isn’t time or room to figure it out,” Stiles says. “No. I’d rather take my chances in the crash than fall from a plane without a parachute, thank you very much.”

“Everybody strap in!” Lydia shouts from the front. “We’re at twenty thousand and dropping fast!”

Everyone scrambles for a seat and a seatbelt. Derek and Boyd stay up, trying to strap down all their luggage as securely as they can.

“Okay, guys,” Stiles says, “I know that people make fun of crash position, but it’s a real thing and they developed it for a reason. Seats straight, bend over, put your arms over your head.”

“Ten thousand feet!” Lydia calls, and Derek and Boyd both get themselves strapped in. Their unfortunate pilot’s body is now strapped into a seat as well, to keep it from flying around. “We’re going to bounce a few times, like skipping a stone,” she shouts to them. “So hold on until we’ve stopped moving _entirely_. Do _not_ try to get up!”

“Please stay seated until the ride has completely stopped moving,” Stiles mutters, and Erica giggles hysterically.

A few seconds later, they hit the earth. It’s like nothing Stiles has ever felt before, and he’s lived through a lot, including an earthquake that had rippled up to Beacon Hills their junior year. The noise is incredible in and of itself, and the jolt of the impact makes him feel like his bones bounced entirely out of his body. They bounce back up and his stomach careens around his insides like on a particularly violent roller coaster. Then they slam back down again. It happens once, twice, three times. There’s the sound of screaming metal and all kind of terrible smells, and then, finally, the plane shudders to a halt.

Silence falls, only it’s not really silence. There’s heavy breathing and dirt showering all around them and pieces of the plane still falling off. But compared to the noise of the crash itself, it’s as quiet as snowfall at night. Stiles coughs a few times. It feels like his entire throat is coated in dust.

“Stiles?” It’s Derek’s voice calling out for him, because of course it is.

Stiles shakes himself and croaks, “Yeah. Calling role. Erica?”

“Here,” she coughs from somewhere behind him.

“Danny?”

“I’m okay,” Danny says.

“Boyd?”

“Yeah, over here,” Boyd replies.

“Lydia?”

“Fffffuuuuck,” Lydia groans.

“She’s okay,” Boyd adds. “Stiles, stay where you are. You shouldn’t move until we’ve checked you out.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. At least he’s not upside down. He’s got what’s sure to be a monster of a bruise on his face, but he’s surprisingly intact, given what just happened. He waits patiently while Boyd and Danny come over and make sure he can feel his toes and that his sternum and spine seem intact before they undo his seat belt and he wobbles to his feet.

The rest of them are similarly bruised and battered, but he can see their wounds healing as he watches. Lydia was the worst hurt, being in the pilot’s seat, and she has a few gashes from shattered glass. She’s shaky but vertical, leaning heavily on Danny.

“Well,” Erica says, as they stagger out of the plane, “my dad is never going to let me live this one down.”

Stiles gives a snort and looks around. The scenery is interesting but not encouraging. They’re in the middle of a flat plain that’s a surprising white. There are mountains distant on the horizon, and hardly any vegetation. The sky is bright blue, without a cloud to be seen, and it’s just warm enough that it’s going to be uncomfortable once they’ve been walking for a while. He takes his cell phone out and is unsurprised to see that they don’t have any service.

“So where the hell are we?” Danny asks, rubbing one hand over his face and holding a bottle of water to Lydia’s mouth so she can take slow sips.

“Utah,” Stiles says, looking around. The others turn and look at him. “This is the Great Salt Lake Desert. A dry lake bed notable for salt deposits, giving it the unique white crusty look.” He notices the others staring at him and says, “What? Rocks are _interesting_!”

Everyone starts laughing. They can’t help it. The adrenaline rush has them close to hysterics, and after a while they all just end up sitting there, laughing their asses off. It takes several minutes for them to calm down. “You did always try to tell us that taking those classes would pay off,” Derek says, shaking his head, eyes still crinkled from smiling.

“Yeah, well, it’s not much of a payment,” Stiles says. “We’re in the middle of four thousand square miles of nothing. And it’s too big an area for me to say ‘oh, if we walk east for a few hours, we’ll get to Salt Lake City’. We might be too far south. I don’t know if I-80 is south or north of us, so we can’t aim for that.”

“So what do we do?” Boyd asks.

Stiles thinks about it. “We head east,” he says. “Eventually we’ll hit I-15 that way. It could be as many as a hundred miles. If we hit something else before then or get cell service, all the better, but one way or another, we’ll find civilization.”

Lydia grimaces. “Average speed on foot is three miles an hour. Even if we can go faster than that, you can’t. That means that we can probably only cover thirty to forty miles in a day, with breaks.”

“Well, there isn’t much we can do about that,” Stiles says. “At least I packed sandwiches.”

“Let’s see what else we’ve got,” Boyd says. All of them, except Stiles and Lydia, head back into the plane to see what they can salvage. They drag out their bags and the cooler. “No emergency kit,” Boyd says, when Stiles gives him a questioning look. “Whoever sabotaged the plane probably took it.” He opens up the cooler. There are a dozen sandwiches inside, two for each of them, along with four apples and four oranges, and a bag of muffins.

“I’m less worried about food and more worried about drinks,” Lydia says. “This isn’t the type of environment that has a lot of water. Or . . . any water at all.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He doesn’t say anything else because the answer isn’t great. He hadn’t been thinking about this, obviously. He had packed drinks, but they were sodas. He knows that caffeine dehydrates, though he supposes that it’s better than nothing. As it turns out, Lydia has two bottles of water, because she favors that Smart Water, and Derek has a twenty ounce of water that he’s drunk about half of. Erica has a bottle of Arizona iced tea, which is basically sugar water.

They share this among their packs and put Lydia in charge of rationing. “Okay, everyone turn your cell phones off,” Stiles says, checking his again. “I’m going to leave mine on and check it for signal periodically. When my battery starts to run low, I’ll turn mine off and we can use someone else’s. That way if anyone tries to call us, there will always be one on.”

Everyone nods and goes to do as they’re told. Stiles looks around and says, “Well, no time like the present, I guess.”

“Wait,” Erica says. “Every time you read about people getting lost in the wilderness, the officials always say ‘stay where you are’. Should we even try to go anywhere? This,” she gestures to their surroundings, “is pretty empty land. Someone will see the wreckage if they fly over, looking for us.”

“Under normal circumstances, you are absolutely correct,” Stiles says, “but these are not normal circumstances. Our pilot was poisoned and our plane was sabotaged. We have to assume that whoever did that has a rough idea of where we’re going to crash, and they’ll probably come looking to make sure there were no survivors.” He starts walking, and the others follow him. “I have no interest in being here when that happens. The good guys will be looking for us, too, but they aren’t yet. They won’t even know we’re missing until we _don’t_ call from Chicago, and they won’t be expecting us to do that for hours yet. Better to get moving.”

“What about the pilot?” Derek asks, though he’s following Stiles. “Do we just leave him?”

Stiles sighs. “I don’t like to. He was a nice guy. But we can’t really carry him with us. And Erica’s right. Someone will spot the wreckage, so . . . let’s try not to worry about it too much.”

“How could he have been poisoned?” Danny asks. “I mean, did someone give him something beforehand?”

“There are plenty of poisons that don’t affect you right away,” Lydia says. “It could also depend on what formulation it was given in, or what he had with it. There’s really no way to know without an autopsy, which we’re really ill-equipped to give.”

“Actually, it was cyanide,” Boyd says. “His mouth tasted like almonds. I noticed when I was giving him CPR.”

“Cyanide usually has an immediate effect, doesn’t it?” Erica asks.

“Yeah, but someone could have put it in a time release capsule or something,” Stiles says. “If he took any sort of medication, maybe they swapped it out.”

Erica shivers. “That’s mean. Tricking him into taking it himself.”

“As usual, we’re up against someone . . . I hate to use the word ‘diabolical’, but if the shoe fits . . .” Stiles shakes his head and keeps walking. “Save your breath and your moisture, guys. It’s going to be a long day.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Allison wakes up with a start, wondering when she fell asleep. She’s curled up in the corner of the clinic, on the cold tile floor. She sits up, her body aching from sleeping on the hard surface, and sees that she was leaning on Scott, who’s in his wolf form. That explains why she’s in the waiting room, not the clinic itself. She remembers going out to update him after her father had finally fallen into a restless sleep himself, and Scott had persuaded her to lie down “for just a few minutes”. She must have fallen asleep.

She checks her watch to see that it’s just past nine o’clock in the morning. It had been nearly dawn before she had fallen asleep, so she’s been asleep for three, maybe four hours. She feels stiff and uncoordinated, mentally foggy and headachy. Her stomach growls. All of that is unimportant. She starts to ease the door to the clinic open to see how her father is doing. Hopefully, he’ll still be asleep.

As soon as she gets the door open, she realizes he isn’t, and she stops moving because she can hear him talking. “Tell – tell me again,” he says, his voice rough from exhaustion.

“Okay,” Victoria replies, and she starts telling Chris about moving to Beacon Hills, about Allison meeting Scott, about Derek Hale, about Kate. Allison stands there in the doorway, listening.

“And that – that’s true?” Chris asks, his voice cracking a little, as Victoria tells him about Kate’s death. “That happened?”

“Yes, Chris,” Victoria says. “That’s true.”

“Okay. Keep going.”

Victoria does, explaining about Peter and Gerard and Stiles becoming the alpha.

“And we don’t trust Stiles,” Chris says.

“No, honey,” Victoria says. “We trust Stiles. He’s our ally.”

“But he just – he just wants us to _think_ that,” Chris says.

“No,” Victoria says again patiently. “That’s just what the spell made you think. Stiles is our friend. He can be trusted.”

Allison leans against the door frame, resting her head there, as her father says, “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Chris. Trust me.”

Chris lets out a breath. “Tell me again,” he says, and Victoria does, starting back at the beginning and going over all of it. “We trust Scott?” he asks.

“Yes, we trust Scott,” Victoria tells him.

“I think – think I tried to hurt him yesterday,” Chris says. “When he came in here. I’m not sure.” His voice rises a notch. “Was that real?”

“Yes, you did, but we stopped you,” Victoria says. “It’s fine.”

Chris lets out another slow breath. “I’m sorry. I – I’m sorry. I’m just confused, and I – I don’t trust myself, don’t know what’s real.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Chris.” Victoria’s voice is firm, and Allison can detect just a hint of anger underneath it, at the people who did this. “None of this is your fault. But you have to trust me. All right? If you can’t trust yourself, trust me. I’m the rock you can set your back against. Always.”

“God, I love you,” Chris says in response. “I love you so much. And I trust you.”

“Good.”

“So we trust Scott?” Chris says, after a moment.

“Yes, we trust Scott. And we trust Stiles.”

“And you’re sure?”

“Yes, honey, I’m sure.”

Allison is startled when the door to the clinic swings open, and she whips around with one of her daggers at the ready, to see Isaac and Mac coming in. She drops her arm to her side. “Jesus,” she says. “Sorry, guys. You startled me.”

“No worries,” Mac says. “We brought breakfast.”

“Thanks,” Allison says, as her stomach gives another gurgle. Scott is on his feet, woken by the noise and the smell of food, and he shifts back to his human form and pulls some clothes on. Allison looks at the door to the back room and says, “I think we can go in. Just take it slow. No sudden moves.” She eases the door open and pokes her head inside. “Mom? Can we come in? We have breakfast.”

“Sure,” Victoria says, and the four of them ease inside. Allison walks over and gives her father a hug. He clutches at her tightly for a few minutes.

“Stiles made some muffins,” Isaac says, setting a box down. “Lemon poppyseed or banana nut.”

Chris looks at Victoria. “We can’t eat those. Can we?”

“Yes, we can,” Victoria says. “Stiles makes excellent muffins.”

“I’m telling him you said that,” Allison says, grinning at her mother. Mac and Isaac have also made a stop at a local dinner and brought some scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns to round out the meal. Isaac is holding a gallon of coffee and a gallon of orange juice.

“Oh, I brought this for you,” he says, taking a crumpled paper bag out of his pocket. “That tea you like, that you got in Wyoming.”

“Awesome,” Allison says. She’s never quite gotten fond of the taste of the tea her Great-Aunt Vanessa had given her, but it really does do wonders to improve mental acuity and get rid of the fogginess that a night of poor sleep results in. “I hope Dr. Deaton has a microwave and some mugs in the back. Dad, do you want any tea?”

“Where is it from?” Chris asks, his hands clutching at the edge of the table.

“It’s from my family in Wyoming,” Victoria tells him. “It’s safe. You’ve had it before.”

“Okay. Then yes. Thank you, Allison.”

Allison drops a kiss on her father’s forehead before heading into the clinic’s break room. She finds several mugs and fills two of them with water before putting them in the microwave to heat up. It’s not the best way to make tea, but without a stove, it’ll do.

“So Stiles went to . . . Wyoming?” Chris asks, looking between his wife and daughter.

“No, Stiles went to Illinois, to talk to your cousin Henry about the fact that he used his twelve-year-old son in an act of war and as an accessory to black magic,” Victoria says, with that glint in her eyes that makes everyone in the room very glad that they are not Henry and Rose Argent.

“But he’s not concerned so much with Henry as he is with whoever put them up to it,” Allison says. “There’s someone moving behind the players here, that’s using the hunters as pawns to try to get to us, to Stiles specifically.”

“Because Stiles is . . . bad?” Chris says, then shakes his head. “No. We trust Stiles.” He takes a deep breath and rubs at his temples. “But people think he’s bad. That he’s corrupted me. Right?”

“Right,” Victoria says, squeezing his hand.

“How do we know, though?” Chris asks. “How do we know that Stiles is a good guy?”

Isaac and Scott shift uncomfortably, but it’s Mac who speaks up, who says, “Because he saves people, even when it would be easier not to. He saved me.”

Victoria nods. “Do you remember when you started trusting Stiles?” she asks, and Chris nods, but then shakes his head. “It was because of Sebastian Stone,” she says. “When he did his final spell, and he used an innocent man to fuel it, to hurt everyone in Beacon Hills. You remember that?” she adds, and Chris nods. “Stiles could have killed Harris to end the spell, but he chose instead to redirect the spell into himself. He risked his own life rather than kill an innocent, in order to save everyone in Beacon Hills. And when we got home that night, you said to me, ‘Vicky, I know it’s crazy, but I think we can trust him’.”

Chris lets out a slow breath. “Right. Okay. I remember that. I just thought – I don’t know what I thought.” He rubs both hands over his face. “It was like, I remembered it happening, but somehow the conclusion seemed wrong, even though there was no reason for that.”

“It’s all right, Chris,” Victoria says, complacently cutting her eggs with the edge of her fork. “It was magic. When things don’t make sense, just ask me.”

Chris nods and starts eating again. “What if Henry and Rose won’t talk to him?”

“He’ll goad them into it,” Allison says. “Henry and Rose are stupidly easy to goad. He’ll tell them that he knows it wasn’t their plan because they’re too stupid to come up with it on their own. Trust me, Dad, he’ll get everything they know without ever lifting a finger against them.”

“Okay. So what are we doing in the meantime?” Chris asks.

“Nothing, Dad,” Allison says. “You have to stay here. Until we find the sorcerer and make sure we get your hair back, you can’t leave Deaton’s clinic.”

Isaac looks up. “Couldn’t we put a circle of mountain ash around your house or something?”

“Yeah, but how would we get him there?” Allison says. “He’d be exposed during the ride. Even ten minutes would be too much.”

“I’m fine here,” Chris says. “Don’t worry about me.” He frowns. “Where are Phil and Jake?”

“Sheriff Stilinski’s taken custody of them for the moment,” Victoria says, “though I think he’s at work and letting Melissa keep an eye on them. Am I right, Scott?”

Scott nods. “Yeah, because Papa Stilinski knew he wasn’t going to be home a lot of the time, so my mom took a few days off from work.”

Chris frowns. “Do we trust Sheriff Stilinski?”

“Yes,” Victoria says. “You’re actually very good friends.”

“Do we trust Jake? And Phil?”

“We trust Jake. We don’t trust Phil.” Victoria’s voice is a little tight with anger. “I don’t blame him for what he did. He was obviously heavily indoctrinated and emotionally manipulated by those wastes of oxygen that call themselves his parents. But no, for the moment at least, we do not trust him. When this is over, we’re going to send him to stay with Julien.”

“And Julien’s on his way here to get him?” Chris asks.

“No, he was going to come pick him up, but instead he’s going to Illinois in case Stiles needs help with Henry and Rose,” Allison says.

“Do we trust Julien?”

“Yes, we trust your cousin Julien,” Victoria says.

“So there’s nothing we need to do,” Chris says.

“Not at the moment, no,” Victoria says.

“Okay.” Chris sets down his muffin, rubs his hands over his face. He looks up at Victoria with a pleading expression. “Tell me again. I’m sorry, I’m just – tell me again who we trust.”

“Don’t apologize,” Victoria says. “I’ll tell you as many times as I need to tell you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	7. Chapter 7

 

It’s not as bad as it could be. They cross the desert in a loose circle, staying quiet to preserve moisture. Stiles can practically feel the salt eating away at his lips. They’re cracking by the time they’ve gone through an hour of the desert.

Danny is the official timekeeper, elected because he has the nicest watch. Every hour, he calls time and they sit down for five minutes. Considering some of their previous misadventures, like climbing a mountain in Faerie, it’s not terrible. He’s thirsty almost constantly, but the exercise itself is low impact and boring as hell. His entire body aches from the crash, but he’s dealt with worse, and soldiers on.

Around noon, Erica says, “Should we take a break? Hottest part of the day, you know?”

“Actually, that’s a common misconception,” Lydia says. “Noon is when the sun is highest in the sky, but not the hottest part of the day. The earth needs time to absorb that heat and then reflect it back into the sky. Typically the hottest part of the day is mid-afternoon, anywhere between two and six PM, depending on the time of year. It’s autumn now, so probably three to five-ish.”

“God, I love having a walking encyclopedia with me,” Stiles says. Lydia gives a haughty sniff. “I am getting pretty hungry, though.”

At this, Lydia nods. “Okay. Let’s take fifteen and have a small snack.”

A ‘small snack’ from Lydia is half a sandwich each. She carefully peels one of the oranges and divides it up into sixths. Stiles is much more interested in the moisture from the orange than he is the turkey sandwich, but he eats all of it. They fan themselves for a few minutes and start walking again.

He’s drawn into his inner thoughts, thinking about everything that’s happened so far, and decides he’d like to talk about it without using up any of his actual voice. _Peter?_ he calls out mentally, and a bare moment later the werewolf appears, walking next to him in the desert.

“What have you gotten yourself into now?” Peter asks.

“Kind of a long story,” Stiles replies, without using his physical voice, and then starts to explain. He spares no detail, knowing that even the smallest thing could be important. Peter listens in silence, grimacing when Stiles explains Phil’s role and what had been done to Chris Argent, and then huffing out an incredulous breath when Stiles gets to the plane crash.

“Only you,” Peter says, “but in reality, you’re lucky.”

“This is lucky?” Stiles asks, glancing around at their surroundings.

“Considering the alternative? You could all be dead, for one thing. You could have been stupid enough to try your luck with the parachute. But alternatively, they could have hijacked your plane and taken it wherever they liked. You could be imprisoned right now, so yes, Stiles, I would say that this was a fairly lucky outcome.”

Stiles sighs and pushes his hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks for putting that in perspective.”

“I did try to warn you that your enemy would only grow more bold with time,” Peter points out.

“Yeah, now isn’t really the time for ‘I told you so’,” Stiles says, annoyed. “Let’s not forget something. We’re dealing with two enemies. You were talking about the general hunter war, not whichever Moriarty is trying to ruin my life.”

“True,” Peter says, “and this does have the fingerprints of our Moriarty all over it. The same method, using someone less intelligent as a pawn to enact their scheme. I don’t know that you would have gotten anything out of Henry Argent in any case, although it would certainly beat being stuck in the desert. What’s bothering you, then?”

“I don’t know. This was just . . . more ruthless than before. I could have died, for real.”

Peter gives him an incredulous look. “You really _are_ becoming inured to the constant turmoil in your life,” he says. “You could have easily died when Eli had his hands on you. For real, as you put it. Jackson intervened in a way that nobody foresaw. You could have easily died when Deucalion was in town, and you _certainly_ could have died when our Moriarty framed you for the murder of the alpha pack hunters. I don’t see how this is any more or less brutal.”

“No, you’re right. It’s the wrong word.” Stiles chews on his lower lip. “It was _impersonal_. It left so much to luck, rather than skill or cunning.”

“Ah.” Peter considers this. “Yes, all right. I do see your point. But many people believe that luck is its own kind of skill. And you do have the devil’s luck, Stiles.”

“I just can’t help but wonder,” Stiles says. “Chris was pretty adamant that he didn’t think Jim Stoddard was likely. Whoever’s doing this honestly seems to be in it for fun rather than any real desire to kill me. It would have been so easy to just shoot me during that whole thing with Eli. It’s a game, and that’s not Stoddard. But at the same time, it’s like every new piece of the puzzle links back to them.”

“Perhaps he’s being subtle because he doesn’t want to be caught,” Peter suggests. “Using others, staying out of the game directly. He’s afraid of the consequences if he takes a direct shot at you. You do, after all, have powerful friends.”

“Yeah, maybe. I just still feel like I’m missing something.”

“Well, you are,” Peter says. “You’re probably missing many things. But all the pieces will come together in time. And this is one more piece of the puzzle. It has to have been someone who was in California. Things happened very quickly, did they not? You were on that plane less than twenty-four hours after Chris came to your den and tried to kill you.”

“Barely more than twelve,” Stiles agrees.

“Stoddard wouldn’t have had time to get all the way here from New England, if he even found out what had happened right away,” Peter says. “Though I suppose it’s possible he could have hired his dirty work done. Still, it’s a lot to accomplish in twelve hours. Finding out who your pilot was, what aircraft they used, finding a way to disable him _and_ the plane? Impressive work.”

“Huh. Maybe we can find out where he was at the time,” Stiles says. “You know, presuming we ever get out of the desert.”

“You will,” Peter says. “I can’t find it in me to believe that you’ve survived so much only to die of dehydration in Utah.”

“Thanks for that.” Stiles chews on all this for a minute. “It would’ve been easy for them to find out. Phil was still in contact with his parents. They would have told Moriarty that things had gone downhill.”

“Would they?” Peter asks. “The way Phil talks about them, they seem intimidated. Given their overall level of pride, it seems more likely to me that they would have hidden the truth from Moriarty and tried to salvage the situation themselves. What did they know?”

“Uhm, let’s see,” Stiles says. “Phil couldn’t text them from inside the panic room because of the jammer Chris was using. And we took his phone away right after. So he probably told them that Chris had attacked, but then . . .”

“Radio silence,” Peter says. “And you took his phone?”

“Yeah. While we were still in the armory.”

“Hm . . .” Peter considers all this. “So they don’t even know what happened. They might assume their son is dead or a prisoner. Do you have those phone records with you?”

“What? Uh, yeah. Danny probably does. What do you need to know?”

“If Henry Argent and Moriarty spoke after what happened at the den,” Peter says. “Which one of them called who, and how long they spoke.”

“Okay.” Stiles clears his throat and opens his mouth. “Hey, Danny. You got those phone records that you looked up for Henry Argent?”

“They’re on my laptop, why?” Danny asks, glancing over at Stiles.

“Peter and I are theorizing,” Stiles says, and tells Danny what they need to know. Lydia declares a five minute break. Everyone gets a sip of water while Danny looks the information up.

“Okay, so, what happened at the den was after dinner yesterday, around seven PM,” Danny says. “And . . . our mysterious mastermind called Henry at around seven thirty local time, which would have been nine thirty in Illinois. They talked for about half an hour.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. “So . . . Moriarty called right away. We were in the armory for about twenty minutes, maybe. Moriarty knew things had gone wrong, and he called Henry to discuss their next step. That’s a pretty long call, so Henry argued, which probably means that he wanted to come here and handle it himself, and Moriarty told him to step off.”

Derek looks up, and Stiles can tell he’s thinking about the timing, the same way Peter had. “Moriarty was in California. He was watching us.”

“Yeah. That’s the inescapable conclusion,” Stiles says. “That would explain why he was able to sabotage the plane with only a few hours of notice. Given his personality, I think this actually makes sense. Like Sebastian Stone. It wouldn’t be fun to play with us from halfway across the country. He would want a front row seat to the chaos. And come to think of it, the sorcerer would have to be nearby, too. Only incredibly powerful sorcerers can cast over any sort of distance. Deaton himself seems to be limited to about a hundred mile radius.”

“You know what else bothers me?” Lydia says, as they start walking again. “Who _is_ the sorcerer? From the way Deaton described the magic that was done, it doesn’t sound like it was easy. They must have someone relatively skilled and powerful, distance aside.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I don’t know. Hunters don’t usually deal with people who practice black magic.”

“Well,” Derek says, “clearly, they decided to bend the rules.”

Stiles nods, and the group falls into an uneasy silence as the sun rises higher in the sky.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Victoria talks to Chris for what seems like hours, telling him about what’s happened in Beacon Hills. She tells him about Allison meeting Scott, this time gifting Scott with her laser stare any time it looks like he might get excited about the fact that Victoria is presenting his relationship with Allison as a good thing.

She tells him over and over again. They talk about other things in between sometimes, other stories of things that happened during Stiles’ years as the alpha that are less relevant than the main events. They let Mac tell him about what happened in Neptune, about how frightened she was, but how Stiles made her feel like she would be all right. Isaac tells him about how they helped him get free of his father, and about how Stiles was adamant to solve Roger Lahey’s murder even though he hadn’t been a good man, because he knew Isaac wanted that.

After a couple hours, Chris nods off again, leaning against Victoria’s shoulder. Victoria looks at Allison and says, “I was up all night, so if you don’t mind . . .”

“No, you get some rest,” Allison says. “We’ll keep watch.”

Victoria nods and closes her eyes. Scott squeezes Allison’s shoulder and says, “He’s going to be all right, Allison. Your dad is amazing.”

Allison manages a smile and says, “Yeah, you’re right. You guys don’t have to stay . . .”

“Are you crazy, of course we’re staying,” Isaac says, and Mac nods. “Let’s just be glad that it’s a Saturday and Deaton doesn’t have patients to see. Anyway, he’s got a computer in his office. Maybe we could watch a movie or something.”

“Good idea,” Scott says. They leave the door to the main clinic open so they can keep an ear out. It takes Scott a minute, but he manages to get Hulu streaming on Deaton’s computer, and they sit down to watch some television. Allison promptly falls asleep, curled in Scott’s arms. Nobody bothers her.

It’s about one thirty when she hears her mother’s phone ringing in the other room, and it wakes her up. It apparently wakes Victoria up, too, because a moment later she hears her mother answer it. “Hello? Yes, how are you? . . . I see. . . . you’re sure? . . . no. Give me ten minutes.” She hangs up the phone and says, “Allison?”

“What is it?” Allison asks, heading into the clinic with the others on her heels. Her father is stirring as well.

“That was Julien,” Victoria says. “He says Stiles and the others aren’t at the airport. He was going to pick them up there, but their plane never landed.”

“What do you mean, their plane never landed?” Scott demands.

Somehow Victoria manages not to retort ‘it really only has one meaning’. Instead, she replies calmly and evenly. “I’m going to call the person who chartered the flight for us and see if I can find out what happened.”

Allison has already whipped her phone out and called Stiles. It goes directly to voice mail, without even ringing. “Stilinski voice mail, you leave it, I’ll retrieve it,” Stiles’ cheery voice says. She hangs up without leaving a message and tries Derek. Same response, albeit without the cute rhyme. She tries every member of the pack in turn and gets the same thing. No ringing. Just straight to voice mail. “Their phones are either turned off or don’t have service,” she reports.

“Jesus,” Isaac says, his eyes wide.

With nothing else to do, they sit in silence and listen to Victoria. Even Chris is listening, but it’s not much of a conversation. “Yes . . . yes, Franklin McDonough. Yes. A Twin Otter DHC-6-300. I’m sorry, I don’t know the call sign. Yes, I’ll hold.” There was a long silence. “Yes, I’m here. I see. Was there any radio contact? All right. Thank you. Yes, I appreciate that. Do you have my number? Thank you.”

She hangs up and sees everyone’s gaze fixed on her. “The transponder for Franklin’s plane shows it never left Beacon Hills,” she says. “They contacted the airport. It turns out that the transponder was removed from the plane and stowed in the hangar.”

“So the plane could be anywhere,” Scott says, going pale.

“Air traffic control confirms that the plane did take off, as scheduled, without incident,” Victoria continues. “But without the transponder, there’s no way of knowing where it went afterwards. There was no radio contact after take off, but that’s not unusual. If there was no problem that the pilot was aware of, or that air traffic control was aware of, there was no reason for him to be in communication with anyone.”

“Obviously there was a problem at some point,” Isaac says anxiously.

“Yes, but there are a lot of reasons that it might not have been called in, if the radio failed, or if someone on the plane was preventing him from using it.”

“Like if the plane was hijacked,” Mac says. Her voice is somewhat flat. “Because that’s a thing that happens in our lives.”

Victoria grimaces a little. “It’s possible. Either way, I think we had better call Sheriff Stilinski.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Sheriff Stilinski’s reaction is almost identical to Scott’s. He demands, “What do you mean, they never landed?” and Victoria gives a brief summary what they know so far. Tom listens and then says, “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” and hangs up without another word.

He’s alone when he gets to the clinic. “Where are Jake and Phil?” Victoria asks him.

“At my house. Melissa is with them, the security system is armed. What do we know?”

Victoria explains in more detail: the plane had taken off, the transponder had been removed, and somewhere in between Beacon Hills and Peoria it had simply dropped off the face of the map. None of the pack members who were on the plane are answering their phones, and they can’t locate the phones by GPS, either. “There are two options,” she says. “Either it went somewhere else, or it crashed.”

Tom paces around the clinic. “How well do you know this Franklin guy?”

“We’ve flown with him several times before,” Victoria says. “We’ve never had a problem. Is it possible he could have been bribed or extorted to fly the plane somewhere other than Peoria? Certainly. Anything’s possible.”

“Okay. Let me get his bank statements and his phone records. What’s the FAA doing?”

“They’re sending out some helicopters to fly through the flight plan at low altitude and see if they can spot anything,” Victoria says.

Tom nods and paces around for a few minutes. The pack members are watching him anxiously. “Okay. If they crashed . . . there isn’t anything we can do, at least not now. We’ll have to rely on the people at the FAA to take a look. But if they were hijacked, that’s another story. They could have taken them anywhere. Maybe we can figure out where.”

Victoria grimaces slightly. “A plane that size could easily land at almost any airstrip. They wouldn’t even necessarily _need_ an airstrip, if the area was open enough.”

“Jesus,” Tom says. “How the hell can we find out? There are dozens of options.”

Isaac raises his hand and says, hesitantly, “Maybe we can ask.”

Everyone turns and blinks at him. “Beg pardon?” Victoria says.

“We have their phone number,” Isaac says. “I mean, not just Henry Argent, but whoever he was taking orders from. Danny got it from his phone records. So . . . maybe we should just call up the number, see who picks up, and ask where they’ve taken Stiles.”

There’s a round of incredulous looks. “Could that – could that possibly work?” Allison asks.

Isaac shrugs. “I don’t know. I just know that Stiles is always talking about how the ‘third option’, like he calls it, is sometimes the simple thing that nobody thinks of. Like when the alpha pack hunters tried to kill us, and he just . . . called the police. Like when he was being framed, and he decided to turn himself in and explain that he was innocent.”

“I guess I don’t see how it would hurt,” Tom says. “I mean, other than giving away the fact that Stiles is missing and we know that, which whoever this is probably already knows anyway. I mean, I doubt that he’ll just give us all the answers, but maybe we can get something out of him. Victoria, why don’t you call Julien and have him go talk to Henry and Rose, see what they know.”

“Okay,” Victoria says, taking her phone back out and stepping away.

Tom gets on the phone to get the records he needs for Franklin, and after some debate, Allison decides to call the number for their mysterious adversary. But the results are disappointing. It rings six times, and then goes to a generic voice mail message, the kind supplied by the phone itself. She leaves a message saying, “This is Allison Argent, and I would like to speak with you as soon as possible.”

“That was anticlimactic,” Isaac says glumly, disappointed that his idea didn’t have a better yield.

“Well, we can’t just sit around,” Scott says. “I’ll call Dr. Deaton. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.” He gets on the phone as well. It takes a minute to explain the situation, and then the Druid says he can certainly try to locate the pack magically, although he cautions them not to get their hopes up. This is standard operating procedure for Deaton, and it doesn’t bother them.

He arrives about fifteen minutes later, about the same time that Sheriff Stilinski has gotten an e-mail with a bunch of phone and bank records. Mac and Isaac sit down with that, while Allison stays with her parents and Scott goes to help Deaton.

Deaton has a locked safe in his basement, which he opens to reveal a variety of tools and artifacts. The one he draws out is a small mannequin that’s magically connected to Stiles. It’s the beneficial voodoo doll that he had made in the past. They’ve never figured out how to work up any sort of alarm system so it will automatically trigger at any injury, but he can still use it as a voodoo doll in the regular fashion. He also takes out a rolled-up map, spreading it over his work table.

Scott sits in silence, ready to assist if Deaton asks, but not wanting to interrupt. Deaton puts the voodoo doll on a string, which unfortunately gives it the appearance of a hanged man, and Scott has to hold back a shudder. It begins to sway back and forth over the map gently, moving in a concentric circle, until it goes still.

They’ve needed enough locator spells at this point that Scott knows what that means. “No reaction?”

Deaton nods and opens his eyes. “No. They’re most likely out of my range.” He considers for a minute. “If we can’t locate them other ways, I think the best think to do would be for me to drive along the flight plan, stop every fifty miles, and try again. It will be time-consuming, but if they actually crashed, that would be the easiest way to find them.”

“Okay, yeah,” Scott says, nodding. “Good idea. Especially since none of us want to get on a plane right now,” he adds, wincing. He pauses as a thought occurs to him. “Can you use magic to track down whoever did this to Chris? Maybe we could find the sorcerer that way.”

“If he or she has an ounce of sense, they will have shielded themselves,” Deaton says, “but it’s certainly worth a try.” He climbs the ladder out of his basement workshop, and tells the others their conclusions. Tom is still going through bank records with a fine-tooth comb, and he barely looks up. “Chris, if you would supply me with one of your hairs, I can try to find the sorcerer who did this to you.”

Chris frowns and shakes his head. “No. No, I can’t do that. Not after – not after everything. It’s not safe.”

Victoria comes over and squeezes his forearm gently. “It’s fine, Chris. We trust Dr. Deaton.”

“But sorcery – ”

“It’s fine,” she repeats. “Chris. Trust me. Remember?”

Chris lets out a shaky breath. “Okay. But only if – only if I can watch what you do with it. And we destroy it right afterwards.”

“Certainly,” Deaton says. He gestures for Chris to join him in the lab, and Victoria follows along.

They’ve been gone about ten minutes, and Scott is pacing around, when Victoria’s cell phone rings. Allison runs over and grabs it, since Victoria is downstairs and they don’t want to disturb Deaton. But she doesn’t want whoever’s calling not to talk to her, so she picks up with, “This is Victoria.” Everyone watches as her face grows pale. The werewolves in the room stiffen. “I – I see. Okay. Oh – really? Okay, that’s . . . that’s good. Uh huh. Okay. Thanks.”

She hangs up, and Tom immediately demands, “What?”

“They found the plane.” Allison’s hands are white-knuckling the back of the chair her father had been sitting in. “In northern Utah. The official said that from the look, it had been a crash landing. She said it was ‘mostly intact’. They found one body, the pilot’s. Nobody else’s.”

“Why would Stiles have left the wreck?” Isaac asks. “He knows that’s his best chance of being found.”

“Yes, he does – and not necessarily by the good guys,” Tom says grimly. “Their plane was clearly sabotaged. He probably suspected that whoever did that would be able to find him a lot faster than we can, so he went to try to find shelter, or a way to call home. It was a smart move, even if it doesn’t help us. Or there’s the possibility that they didn’t leave voluntarily. That whoever crashed the plane picked them up from the crash site.”

“If we can get Deaton to the wreckage ASAP, then he can try the locator spell again,” Scott says.

“Jesus, we can’t just put him on a plane,” Mac says, laughing a little hysterically. “And that’s got to be a full day’s drive.”

“Then we’d better get moving,” Allison says.

“Do we really want to divide up again?” Isaac asks. “I mean, we’re leaving the territory practically unprotected. What if this is what they wanted?”

Tom pushes a hand back through his hair. “You’re right. But I don’t see what we can do about it.”

“We need backup,” Allison says. “We could call Justin.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Scott says. “Tell Cora that her brother’s disappeared into the Utah wilderness after a plane crash? _That’s_ going to be a fun phone call.”

“If it’ll get them here, let’s do it,” Tom says. And then they all looked at each other. Tom closes his eyes for a few moments but manages to speak evenly. “Does anybody have Justin or Cora’s phone number?”

“Only Stiles ever calls Justin, and only Derek ever calls Cora,” Isaac says helplessly. “Derek skypes with Cora, but always from Stiles’ laptop, which he brought with him.”

“Then we’ll just have to be extra vigilant,” Allison decides. “Scott, why don’t you go with Deaton? The rest of us will stay here.”

Everyone agrees with that. The others come up from the workshop a few minutes later, and Allison tells them what happened in their absence. Deaton agrees to pack a few things, and goes back down into the basement.

Victoria is looking pensively into the distance, and after a few moments, she says, “There’s one other thing we can do. If the enemies have indeed gotten hold of Stiles and the others, the most likely place for them to be is the Nazario prison in Wyoming. It’s secure, already prepared to hold supernatural creatures. I don’t know exactly where it is, but it probably isn’t too far from northern Utah. It would be much, much easier to transport them there than to try to get them all the way to Stoddard’s prison, or to prepare a secondary location.” She stood up and smoothed down her skirt. “I think it’s time I called my Aunt Vanessa to see what she has to say about this.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Jake isn’t really interested when he hears Melissa answer her phone downstairs, but he keeps half an ear out anyway. Phil is curled up on Stiles’ bed, trying to watch television. She brought them each a tuna salad sandwich and some chips about an hour previous. He likes Melissa; she’s always been nice to him.

“Hey, honey,” Melissa says, which means that it’s either Scott or Sheriff Stilinski calling her. Then, abrupt and alarmed, “Oh my God. Are you sure? . . . What happened . . . is Scott with you?” she adds, which answers the question of who she’s talking to, but not what they’re talking about. Phil looks anxious now, too, responding to her tone of voice even though he doesn’t know her. “Okay . . . yes, of course, I’ll stay with them. Uh huh. No, it’s already set, I haven’t been out since you left this morning. Just . . . keep me posted, okay? Okay. Love you.”

Jake practically falls down the stairs with Phil on his heels. “What is it, what’s happened?” he asks, seeing that Melissa’s naturally tanned skin is paler than usual.

Melissa looks up at them and, seeing Phil, tries to find a gentle way to phrase things. “Stiles and the others haven’t been in contact,” she says. “We’re not sure where they are.”

“They – they were going to go see my parents, right?” Phil asks, eyes wide. “Do you think my parents did something to them?”

“No,” Melissa says slowly. “They didn’t make it to Illinois.”

“Didn’t – didn’t make it?” Jake asks. “What happened?”

“We don’t know, Jake,” Melissa says, keeping her voice calm and even. “All we know so far is that the plane left at eight AM, on time, and never landed in Illinois. We don’t know if it crashed or if it went somewhere else instead. Tom and Victoria are going to see if they can find out what happened, and they asked me to stay here with you. Can you double check the alarm system for me?”

“Y-Yeah,” Jake says. He takes Phil by the elbow and heads to the front door. He sees Melissa heading into Tom’s office, which means she’s going for the spare gun in the safe. All of the parents in Beacon Hills had taken a crash course in ‘how not to be a liability for your werewolf child’, which had included self-defense lessons and firearm handling by Chris Argent.

Jake checks the alarm system and then makes sure all the windows are closed and locked. He knows how to handle a gun, too, but he doesn’t really have any interest in doing so, and he’s pretty sure that Sheriff Stilinski only keeps one spare at the house. Then he calls Allison. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks.

“Not right now,” she says. She’s calm, but clearly shaken. “Uncle Julien is going to go talk to your parents. We’re waiting to hear back from some other people, too.”

“Okay,” Jake says. “Just – if there’s anything – ”

“I’ll let you know,” Allison says.

Jake winds up pacing around the house while Melissa and Phil sit at the kitchen table. Melissa is trying to get Phil to play cards with her, but he’s tense and distracted. When the phone rings, they all jump. Melissa grabs it. “What is it?” she asks, and then closes her eyes for a few minutes. “Okay. Yeah. Okay. I love you, sweetheart. Be careful.”

She hangs up and takes a deep breath. “The plane definitely crashed,” she says, “but they didn’t find any bodies. So either Stiles and the others are trying to hike to safety, or they were taken from the wreckage. Right now, Scott is going with Dr. Deaton to see if they can find them using a locator spell. Meanwhile, we’re still waiting to hear back from your Uncle Julien, and Victoria is calling her Aunt Vanessa up in Wyoming to see if she knows anything about it.”

“Okay,” Jake says. He’s frightened, but handling it. If the bodies weren’t in the wreckage, that means Stiles and the others are still alive. And nobody can handle weird, dangerous situations like Stiles and the pack. “Deal me in, okay? Maybe we should make some tea.”

Melissa nods, but she’s looking at Phil. “Are you okay, honey?”

“This is all my fault,” Phil says, and chokes back a sob. “Everyone here was so nice to me and, and I probably got Stiles killed. He never did anything to me and I got him killed.”

“Oh, no, honey, none of this is your fault,” Melissa says, moving over to his side of the table to get an arm around him. “For one thing, don’t count Stiles out yet. You’d be surprised what he can survive. But nobody thinks this is your fault. Your parents lied to you, and that isn’t your fault.”

“It is though,” Phil says. “I mean, they told me things, but Jake and Uncle Julien told me different things. But I didn’t listen. I just believed everything my parents said to me even though I should have known they were wrong.”

“They’re your _parents_ ,” Melissa says firmly. “You had every reason to believe them. And I know that it’s really hard for you to hear this, but they manipulated you. They knew what they were doing when they lied to you.” She gives him a hug and says, “If you can’t believe that it’s not your fault, can you at least believe that nobody here blames you?”

Phil sniffles. “I guess. I can try.”

“I’ll take it,” Melissa says. “Forget tea. I think you need some cocoa. How about it, Jake?”

“Sure,” Jake says, with a wan smile. He reaches over and tousles his brother’s hair. “I’ll be right back, okay?” he adds, and jogs upstairs. Tom had given him Phil’s phone, with the instructions to go through it and catalog everything that Phil had told Henry. He hesitates for a minute, then taps the screen to call his father’s number.

It rings six times, but then goes to voicemail. He tries his mother, but gets the same response. After pacing around for a minute, he calls Julien on his own phone. “Uncle Julien? It’s Jake. Did – did you get in touch with my parents?”

“No,” Julien says, and his voice is cautious, carefully measured. “They’re not here.”

Jake swallows. “Did – did they make a run for it?”

“I’m not sure, Jake,” Julien says. “Their cars are still here, but they might have had some other method of transportation available. I’m going to see what I can find out, okay?”

“Okay,” Jake says, and hangs up. He stares out the window and wonders why he’s so sure that his parents are dead.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is somewhat triggery for torture, dehumanization, panic attacks, claustrophobia.... generally me being a horrible person to Stiles....

 

By the time the sun sets, they’ve gone from being in the middle of nowhere to being in a different part of the middle of nowhere. Their scenery has barely changed. The mountains on the horizon don’t look any different. It’s discouraging to say the least. Lydia estimates that they’ve walked between twenty-five and thirty miles. Naturally, they haven’t seen another living soul. Planes have flown over a few times, but too high to see them, even if they wave and shout.

“They must be looking for us by now,” Erica says, after the third plane they see.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “But that doesn’t mean they’ll find us.”

He has faith in his pack, in his father. He’s less afraid than he probably should be. It’s one of those things that he just can’t muster up an emotional response for. He always does this to a certain degree. Locks down any sort of freak-out he wants to have or even should have, deals with the problem, and then has a delayed reaction breakdown. It’s probably not the healthiest way of coping, but it works.

Once the light has faded from the sky, it becomes clear that they won’t be able to travel at night. The moon is almost new, and the stars don’t provide enough light to see by. The wolves had some limited night vision, but that only takes them so far, and Stiles of course has normal human vision.

“Let’s try to build a fire,” Stiles says. “Maybe a plane or something will see it.”

The others agree, but it’s a lot easier said than done. There’s pretty much no vegetation. They’ve seen a few scraggly tufts of grass over the course of the day, but that’s all. They have their spare clothes, which are flammable enough but won’t burn for more than a few minutes. Salt does burn – Stiles knows this from a kitchen mishap – so they dig up a section of the desert and shred some cloth into it before using some matches that Stiles carries in his ‘bag of random crap’.

“Forget it, guys,” Lydia says, after a few minutes of effort. “I just don’t think it’s going to happen.”

She shares out more food. They finish the sandwiches – they won’t be good after today, so there’s no point in hanging onto them. They split another orange and take a few sips of the water. Everyone presses him to take a few extra swallows. They can tolerate dehydration and deprivation better than he can, they remind him.

That’s all well and good, but he’s grimly aware that with what they have, they can’t last more than two or three more days. That thought is still rolling around in his head when he curls up on the hard ground, rests his head on Derek’s flank, and drifts off to sleep.

It turns out not to matter at all.

They’ve set up watches, of course, but nobody sees the attack coming. The ground suddenly starts to shake. All of them bolt to their feet. “Stay together!” Stiles shouts, as the world begins to heave around them. He stumbles into Derek, who grabs him and steadies him. Then he sees light on the horizon. Headlights.

“I hear engines,” Derek says. “Big ones, trucks maybe.”

Any sort of vehicle would be able to cross the salt flats without issue. Stiles takes a moment to consider their options only to realize that they have none. They could run, but there’s nowhere to go, and they can’t outrun cars on open ground. The obvious option of ‘stand and fight’ is basically suicide. They’re undoubtedly going to be outnumbered, and although they’re not completely weaponless, it’s close. The only weapon he brought with him is his .38, and he only has one spare clip. He can’t fight off an army with that.

They could surrender. That’s an option he considers briefly before shoving it aside. He doesn’t know whether these people intend to capture them or kill them, but there’s too good a chance that they’d be slaughtered where they stood.

In a few seconds, he decides that running is their best option. They can’t all make it, but maybe one or two of them can, and they can try to get help to the others. “Everyone turn your phone on so we’ll be able to locate your GPS if you wind up in a place with signal,” he says, in a rapid voice. “And then run. We’ll split into pairs and go in opposite directions. Boyd and Erica, Danny and Lydia, and Derek with me. Got it? Go. Go!”

Everyone takes off. Stiles hastily clambers onto Derek’s back, since he can’t run anywhere near as fast as the werewolf, and he takes off at a dead sprint.

It’s a good plan, and one he’s pretty proud of coming up with in such dire straits. The hunters will have to split up to follow them, so maybe some of them can get away, or be able to fight off a smaller group. He and Derek can take on as many as a dozen, maybe, or at least slow them down enough to get away.

He’s actually starting to think that it might not be a total disaster when the desert ground ripples again and a huge chunk of it just starts to rise, a wall erupting from the solid ground right in front of them. It happens too fast for Derek to check his momentum, and he slams into it at almost full speed and then collapses backwards. “Derek? Derek!” Stiles says, squirming out from underneath him. The werewolf gives a growling groan, the bones in his face creaking as they start to repair themselves. Stiles crouches over him and pulls out his .38, but he doesn’t see anyone coming towards them.

The ground gives another shake and then four walls erupt out of the desert floor, enclosing him in utter darkness. “No!” Stiles shouts, slamming his fists into the hard ground. He can feel his stomach rising into his throat and presses the claustrophobia back down. He forces himself to steady his hands and ready his gun for when the walls come down.

But they don’t. He can hear the earth shifting, moving, but he isn’t sure what’s happening until he hears an engine. They’re putting him on the truck still in the cube. “Derek,” he whispers, shaking the half-conscious werewolf. “Derek, wake up. Get us out of here.”

“Fuck,” Derek groans, and manages to sit up. Stiles can hear him pounding his fists against the earth. An interminable amount of time passes before he finally says, “Jesus, it’s no good. That’s harder than granite.”

“It, it shouldn’t be,” Stiles says, feeling panic close in. “Salt is actually very fragile, the earth should be crumbly, it should be – ”

“It should still be on the desert floor, but it isn’t there, either,” Derek says waspishly. But then his voice softens. “Hey. Hey, come here.” He gathers Stiles into his arms, feeling the way Stiles is trembling. “You’re okay. I know it’s dark in here, but you’re okay.”

Stiles buries his face into Derek’s shoulder and tries to calm down. “Just, just talk to me,” he whispers. “Don’t let me forget I’m not alone.”

“Okay,” Derek says. “You’re not alone. I’m here with you.” He starts telling Stiles about the painting he’s working on, the last one he sold, the things he wants to do with his gallery. Gradually, the panic eases. But Stiles knows that it’s going to come back, and the longer they’re in this truck, the worse it’s going to get. All he can do is hold on.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Victoria has to leave a message for Vanessa, and while they’re waiting for her to call back, Deaton and Scott get on the road. “Be safe,” Allison tells Scott, and hugs him for a long minute. After some consideration, she sends Isaac and Mac to go check on Jake and Phil. She doesn’t want anybody thinking that they’re not being well protected.

The pack feels spread thin to her, and she’s uncomfortable with it even if it _wasn’t_ their adversary’s goal. There’s not much she can do about it, but in retrospect she wishes they had split evenly, and that Lydia or Boyd had stayed with her. She supposes one more person really wouldn’t make a difference if something happened. And who knows what’s going on with Stiles? He might need them.

Chris takes a mid-afternoon nap and wakes up confused and disoriented. It takes Victoria almost an hour to get him calmed down again. She has to start back at the beginning and tell him everything that happened, over and over again. Allison texts with Scott and keeps trying to call Stiles and the others, just in case.

Victoria’s phone rings just as they’re discussing who’s going to sleep at the clinic and who isn’t. (The answer is that everybody is going to sleep at the clinic. Victoria thinks that Allison should go somewhere with a real bed, but she’s staunchly refusing.) She picks it up and says, “Hello? Aunt Vanessa. Thank you for calling me back. Do you mind if I put you on speaker? Allison and Chris are here.”

The response she must get is affirmative, because she taps the screen of her phone and then sets it down, saying, “Thanks.”

“What’s going on, Vicky?” Vanessa asks, in the brusque, harsh tone that Allison was now used to. Vanessa always gives the impression of being angry, even though she rarely is.

“Can I tell you about something and have it be in confidence?” Victoria asks.

Vanessa grunts. “I can keep a secret.”

“Okay. We’ve come under attack here. Chris’ cousin Henry is working with a sorcerer. I don’t want to go into a lot of detail. To make a long story short, Stiles and half his pack got on a plane to go confront Henry and see if they can find out who he’s working with. Only the plane never made it. It crashed in Utah.”

“Jesus, Vicky,” Vanessa says. “Any survivors?”

“We’re not sure,” Victoria says, her voice still calm and even. “No bodies were found beyond the pilot. The officials said it looked like a controlled crash-landing, so there’s a good chance that the werewolves would have been able to walk away. They didn’t find a lot of blood or body parts or anything like that. But there’s been no sign of Stiles or any of his pack.”

“If they crashed in Utah, it could take them days to walk to civilization,” Vanessa says. “There’s a hell of a lot of empty miles up there.”

“I know,” Victoria says. “But there’s every appearance that the plane was sabotaged. Our fear is that whoever did that knew approximately where they were going to land, and picked them up while they were still dazed from the crash.”

“Likely enough. What do you need from me?”

“Well,” Victoria says, “it occurred to us that if someone was going to crash a plane in northern Utah and then wanted to take their abductees somewhere secure, your family’s prison might leap to mind. Ariah was pretty angry last time she saw us. She might be involved.”

“Nnn,” Vanessa says, more of an auditory grimace than anything else. “She’s not. At least, I don’t think so.”

“That’s not good enough, Aunt Vanessa. People are missing, possibly hurt.”

“Yeah.” Vanessa sighs. “Look, confidence goes both ways, okay? Ariah isn’t well. She’s been in and out of the hospital for the last couple months. Doesn’t want anyone to know. You know how she is. But she’s almost eighty, for Christ’s sake, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. First it was just the flu, right? But then it turned into pneumonia. She was in the hospital for three weeks, and she hasn’t been the same since then. She’s had to go back twice, first because of shortness of breath, and then again because she passed out and fell. We thought she might have broken her hip, although she didn’t, thank God. Anyway, they think she’s had at least one mild heart attack in the past that we didn’t even know about because of course she never sees a doctor.”

“I’m sorry,” Victoria says.

“Yeah, thanks.” Vanessa brushes this off. “Anyway, I don’t think she would’ve had the time to coordinate something like this, and I’ve been with her more often than not.”

Allison leans forward a little. “Does she have children? Who else has access to the prison?”

“She’s got two kids, yeah,” Vanessa says. “Katarina married one of the Winchesters and we haven’t even seen her in years, and Malcolm is responsible for the hunters in Colorado so he’s pretty busy most of the time and doesn’t really care about this stuff. But none of that means that Ariah didn’t talk to someone else about the prison before she got sick, or that one of the people who runs the place didn’t decide to rent the damned thing out if Henry Argent offered him a big enough payday.”

“Well, we need to check it out and if Stiles is there, get him the hell out,” Allison says.

Vanessa’s quiet for a minute. “I can’t tell you where it is,” she finally says. When Allison protests, she says, “I’m sorry, Allison, but I just can’t. Ariah would kill me. Literally. But I will ask some questions and go check it out. I’m in Colorado myself right now – Malcolm was having trouble with a nasty batch of Red Caps – but I’ll get back there as soon as I can. If Stiles is being held there, I _promise_ you that I will make sure he and the rest of his pack get released unharmed. It’s the best I can do for you, Vicky.”

“I’ll take it,” Victoria says. “We have some other plans in motion, so if anything develops, I’ll let you know.”

Allison is quiet, deep in thought, as Victoria says goodbye and hangs up the phone. After a minute, she looks up and says, “I need to go talk to a few people. Will you be all right here without me?”

“We’re fine, honey,” Victoria says, and she doesn’t ask what Allison is planning.

Allison goes out to the car and thinks over her options for a few long minutes before calling Scott. “Hey, babe, where are you?” she asks.

“An hour east of Reno,” he says. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, and explains what’s happened so far. “I was thinking about how else we might find that facility. Vanessa’s not going to tell us where it is, and it could be days before you and Dr. Deaton get close enough to find them with magic. Somebody must know where it is, right? And I think I might know who.”

Scott’s blank silence shows that he hasn’t yet boarded her train of thought. “Okay. Who?”

“Ian.”

“That shapeshifting monster from the Conclave?” Scott asks, surprised.

“Yeah. He was in one of the prisons, remember? We know it wasn’t the Gutierrez prison because we’ve seen all their records. So there’s a fifty-fifty shot that it was either the one in Wyoming or the one in Vermont. And I bet it was the one in Wyoming. Agnes St. James seems to be the one who was responsible for selecting him, and she’s friends with my Great Aunt Ariah.”

“Okay,” Scott says. “Yeah, I guess he might know, but we can’t exactly trust him.”

“I know, but I’ve got to do something. I can’t just sit here. Do you think we could get in touch with him?”

“We-e-e-e-ell,” Scott says, thinking, “he wrote Stiles all those postcards and stuff. I think he put an e-mail address on them sometimes, telling Stiles to write to him, though I don’t think Stiles ever did. You might be able to find it. Stiles is such a packrat, he keeps everything.”

“Where do you think they might be?” Allison asks.

“I don’t have any idea,” Scott says, “but I bet Papa Stilinski will.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Somehow, and Stiles has no idea how, Stiles manages to keep the panic at bay. He has two minor panic attacks, but Derek soothes them away both times. He hates everything about where he currently is – he hates the smell and the darkness and the way he’s cramped up into such a tiny space, and most of all he hates the fact that he keeps thinking about the trunk of Peter’s car – but he’s not alone. Derek is there with him, so every time his heartbeat starts to ramp up and his breath starts to whistle in his throat, Derek rubs his hands over Stiles’ back, murmurs comforting things into his ears.

Stiles doesn’t really fall asleep, but he slides into a half doze and pictures the birch grove in his mind. It won’t do a God damned bit of good, but he really feels like yelling at Peter right now. “This is all your fault,” he snaps, when Peter appears.

Peter grimaces. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

“I’m – I just – ” Stiles feels the panic closing in again. He forces himself to take a deep breath. “I fucking _hate_ being closed in. You – you’re a smart asshole, fix – fix this.”

Peter lets out a sigh. “I would truly love to oblige you,” he says, “but I don’t really see how. You’re trapped in a magical block of stone. If Derek isn’t strong enough to physically break it, your options are pretty much nil. Your only choice would be to try to get away once it opens.”

“Some help you are,” Stiles mutters, and Peter shrugs. “I’m going to find out who this sorcerer is and I’m going to put my foot up their ass.”

“Well, until then, you might as well get some rest,” Peter says, and disappears.

Stiles groans into Derek’s shoulder, and when Derek asks what’s wrong, he says, “Your uncle’s a fucking dick,” and Derek doesn’t argue. Stiles just curls tighter. There’s basically no room to do anything besides curl up in Derek’s arms, so he might as well own it.

After about an hour – he thinks it’s been an hour, he hopes it’s been an hour – his legs start to cramp up. He’s beginning to realize that wherever they’re going, it’s not close. He tries to stretch but his arms and legs both hit the walls of their cage. A frustrated whine escapes him.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Derek says, but Stiles _isn’t_ okay, and he doesn’t know how Derek can say that. He hurts and it’s dark and he’s frightened and he isn’t the legendary Boy in Red in here, he’s sixteen and scared and he wants _out_. He’s slamming his fists against the walls while Derek tries to restrain him without hurting him, screaming to be let out without being aware of what he’s saying.

“Shh, shh,” Derek soothes, as his screams dissolve into hysterical sobs. Derek holds him, but he can’t stop crying. He wants out so badly that he can’t think about anything else. He can’t breathe. He feels like he’s suffocating.

Gradually, the worst of it passes. The hysterics eventually peter out, more from exhaustion than anything else. He lets out a few more hitching sobs and goes silent. Derek just keeps holding him, rocking him as much as their limited space will allow.

Hours pass. He drifts and dozes, though he never really sleeps. Every time he falls asleep enough to lose track of his surroundings, he jolts awake with the panic back in his throat. He has no idea how much time has gone by when the truck finally rolls to a stop. A few moments later, the earth dissolves around him. He flails around like a landed fish, trying to get his limbs back in order, and fails entirely. The back of the truck is yanked open and he’s dragged out by his elbows before he can even think about trying to escape. There’s a quick bite of cold air, a flash of light, and then he’s inside, being dragged down a hallway. It’s wide enough for six people to walk abreast, but it’s dim and damp, constructed of concrete and stone. He wonders if they’re going underground, but there’s no slope in either direction. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals that Derek is being dragged along with him, that it’s taking six men to keep him down, but the six men are succeeding.

The tunnel is about fifty feet long. Then they come out into what looks much more like a hospital wing. Smooth linoleum floors and inoffensively pastel walls. The scent of disinfectant permeates everything, and he feels his heartbeat ramp up. He hates hospitals.

Derek is dragged in a different direction, and puts up such a fight at being separated that Stiles can hear him howling for several minutes afterwards. They take two corners, and then he’s shown through what looks like a solid steel door. The room he’s put in reminds him of nothing so much as a dentist’s office. A large chair in the middle with a light overhead, a counter and a sink and some cupboards. He’s shoved into the chair manhandled onto his back, still trying to struggle as they get him strapped down.

He tries to wrestle free, but it gets him absolutely nowhere. His body isn’t really moving quite the way he wants it to. He’s reminded, suddenly and viciously, of some of his past exploits when his body has been pushed too far and given up.

“Get a line in him,” a crisp, female voice says. “He’s dehydrated.”

‘No shit,’ he wants to say. ‘I just walked across half the desert,’ he wants to say. He’s fairly sure they were in the truck most of the night. But all that comes out is another croak and a little flail as they get an IV started.

He drifts for a little while. He’s too weak to really do much of anything. Gradually, the saline drip starts to revive him. He realizes that he’s alone in the room and starts working at the restraints again. He’s gotten exactly nowhere with them when the door opens and a woman walks in. She’s fairly short and thin, definitely human, and has brown hair swept back into a tight bun and wire-rimmed glasses.

“Hey, nice to meet you,” Stiles says, when she doesn’t immediately address him, but instead sets down a clipboard and a small device that looks like a recorder or microphone. “Thanks for the saline. Perked me right up. What are the odds that I can get a cheeseburger?”

She doesn’t reply. Instead, she begins to dictate into her recorder. “Subject is a twenty year old male. Currently the only known human alpha in existence. The purpose of these experiments is to judge to what extent being the alpha affects him physically. The benefits of lycanthropy fall into four categories: strength, speed, endurance, and healing ability.” She continues to study Stiles with a clinical gaze that makes him extremely nervous. “Subject currently has bruising on his face and chest, most likely related to the plane crash that occurred twenty-four hours previous. We can therefore deduce that the effects of his alphahood on his healing ability are minimal. We will continue to monitor these physical injuries.”

She walks over to a cabinet and begins to look through one of the drawers, still dictating.  “Speed testing is not recommended for obvious reasons – ”

“No, I’d love to give you a demonstration of my speed,” Stiles says. “Totally.”

The woman ignores him. “So we will begin with endurance testing.” She gestures to the two men who have been waiting in the doorway, who come over to free Stiles from the restraints. When Stiles attempts to get away, one of them prods his ribs with a stun gun. He recognizes it as the kind Chris uses, and sometimes Allison, that carries voltage far above the legal limit. High enough to stun a werewolf, and probably enough to kill him. He decides to stop struggling. They want to test his endurance, he can do that. As long as they’re doing experiments on him, they’re not killing him, and the longer he’s in one place, the higher the odds that his pack will find him. They’re looking. His father is the best detective he knows, and Allison is smart as a whip. The others are no slouches either. They’ll find him. He just has to hold out until then.

It’s somewhat discomfiting when he finds himself shown into a room that’s nothing more than bare concrete with what looks like a hole in the floor. It’s a well, he realizes. Not even large enough to call a pool. About five square feet, enough room to tread water but not really enough to swim. They strip his clothes off and shove him in.

The cold hits him like a physical shock, and he gasps and sputters, flailing. The walls are smooth concrete. There’s nothing he can grasp. He tries to get his feet against one wall and his shoulders against the other, to try to walk up the side but it’s about a foot too wide. There’s nothing he can do except tread water, so that’s what he does. And does. And does.

His muscles, already sore from the plane crash and stiff from the extended confinement, begin to complain almost immediately. The cold only makes it worse, making his joints lock up and groan. He forces them to comply. Then he realizes something. These people are testing his endurance. They aren’t going to let him drown. When he stops treading water and goes under, they’ll assume he’s exhausted and pull him back out.

He does some sputtering to make it look more realistic, then gradually allows himself to sink. He counts in his head, holding his breath. The water is inky black, and he can’t see anything. Ten seconds pass. Fifteen. Twenty. His lungs start to ache. Thirty seconds. Forty-five.

At a full minute, his head breaks the water and he gasps for air, splashing around and trying to regain his bearings. He allows himself to sink again, but panics almost immediately, flailing and sputtering. Then he starts treading water again.

Ten minutes later, he tries again. The same thing happens. So he keeps paddling. He wonders if the others can feel his physical stress and panic. He wonders what his father is doing, if they’ve found the wreckage of the plane, if they think he’s dead. He wonders what’s going to happen when he finally runs out of steam.

Eventually, it happens. He just can’t hold himself up any longer. He grasps helplessly at the sides and gradually sinks below the surface. He holds his breath, holds it and holds it and holds it until he finally can’t anymore –

and he’s dragged out of the water just as he takes a breath. He coughs and sputters, collapsing onto his side on the concrete, water coming out of what feels like every orifice. He’s so tired that he can’t even glare at the woman who’s dictating into her stupid little recorder. “Subject completed endurance test one with a time of three hours and sixteen minutes, which is approximately one standard deviation above the human mean but two standard deviations below the werewolf mean.” She clicks off her recorder, then turns it back on and adds, “We will now verify the accuracy of this test.”

Stiles is wondering what the hell _that_ means, and thinking about how little he likes the sound of it, while the guards scoop him up and drag him into another room. It’s about the size of a gymnasium. They dump him just inside with no restraints. The woman in the lab coat just watches him for a minute; then a guard comes in carrying a tray that has a steak on it, as well as a basket of rolls and some vegetables. There’s a can of Coke on the tray, too. Stiles stares at it, _yearns_ for it, as he sets it down about fifty yards away. He wants it _so_ badly that he crawls towards it, even knowing that he’s just playing along with the woman’s experiments. But he can’t make it. He barely crawls for four seconds before he collapses and just has to breathe for a few minutes.

When he hears a loud noise, he realizes that he passed out. One of the men picks him up again, but the woman with the lab coat is gone. “Can I have the food now?” Stiles asks, making an effort to sound pitiful. But the man says nothing. He’s carried back to his original room and strapped into the chair. Then the man leaves. The room is empty. Stiles ponders his options for approximately two seconds before he passes out.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh ... continuing trigger warnings for torture, dehumanization, experimentation, Chris dealing with his issues, and, uh, bees. Yeah. Sorry.

 

Sheriff Stilinski listens to everything that Allison has to say and finally says, “Well, if he has them, they’ll be in that pit of a closet that he calls ‘storage’. He swears he has a system.”

“’Throw everything in a pile’ is technically a system,” Mac says helpfully.

Tom snorts and shakes his head. “You want my help?”

“No, I don’t think more hands will really matter,” Allison says, and the three remaining pack members head upstairs and start emptying Stiles’ closet out onto his floor. There _is_ an amazing amount of crap stashed away in it. Old school papers, clothes he hasn’t worn in years, a blender, a bicycle repair kit – “Why? He doesn’t even own a bicycle!” – a manual for the Jeep. It goes on and on.

It takes about an hour of rooting through the mess to find a thick stack of postcards held together with a rubber band. The three of them sit on a bed with Scott on skype. He and Deaton have stopped for the night; he’s in a motel in a city in Nevada. “Man, this guy is persistent,” Isaac says, surprised at how many there are. He holds up the first one, which depicts a Hawaiian sunset. “Thinking of you,” he reads off the back. “Really?”

“Really,” Allison says, looking at the second. It’s a magnificent waterfall from somewhere in South America. “Wish you were here,” she quotes, and giggles despite herself. “Ian’s got a crush.”

“Check out this one,” Mac says, coming up with an actual envelope. There’s a postcard inside from British Columbia, and a newspaper clipping. She reads off the postcard: “I have been having a marvelous time in Canada. I’ve sent a photo for you to enjoy.” She holds up the newspaper clipping and says, “It’s a Bigfoot sighting.”

“This guy is such a troll,” Allison marvels. A postcard from central Africa reads, “Rumors of the boy in red have spread this far. I’ve been telling them all about you.” Another from Japan says, “The red sun on their flag reminds me of your eyes.” Allison shakes her head and says, “I’ve had boyfriends who didn’t lay it on this thick.”

“Was I one of them?” Scott asks hopefully.

“No, babe, you were most definitely not,” Allison replies, with a cheeky grin. Scott makes a face at her. “I love how romantic you are!” Allison assures him. “And the more incompetent you were at it, the better I liked it.”

“There’s hope for Ian yet, then,” Scott says with a snort, as the others continue to sort through the stack.

“Man, these are really from all over,” Mac says. “How does he do that? I can’t imagine he has a bank account or an ID that would get him onto an airplane.”

“What the hell does he need an airplane for?” Allison asks. “He can turn into a _dragon_.”

“Okay, I’m pretty sure we would have seen that on the news,” Isaac says. “But I guess he can probably also be a bird or a bat or something. Or a spaceship. Who knows? He can probably be fucking _anything_. But I guess that’s good, huh? I mean, it means he’ll be able to get to us quickly if he knows where the prison in Wyoming is.”

Allison nods. “Hey, look at this one,” she says, holding up a postcard that’s completely black and reads ‘Jersey at Night’. She reads Ian’s message out loud. “I’m beginning to despair of you returning my e-mails. Keep this up and I’ll be forced to assume you don’t like me anymore.” She sets it down and says, “So he has an e-mail. Maybe we can find it.”

“Well, I don’t think he wrote it on any of these,” Mac says, shuffling through. “They’re all just these cute little love notes.”

“If Stiles kept the physical mail Ian has sent, he’s probably kept the e-mail as well,” Allison says. “I mean, he would want a way to get in touch with Ian if he needed to. A shapeshifter who’s at least nominally on our side? Stiles would keep him in mind. Maybe we can get into Stiles’ email. Mac, do you think you could hack in?”

Scott gives a snort. “So unnecessary. I can get into Stiles’ e-mail.”

“Are his username and password both ‘Derek’?” Allison asks, grinning.

“No,” Scott says, laughing. “Stiles takes security way more seriously than that. But he uses gmail, and if I can’t guess his password in the first three tries, I’ll turn in my best friend badge.” He chews on his lower lip, eyes straying from the webcam as he uses his computer to pull up Gmail. “He wouldn’t use anything obvious,” he finally says, “but he wouldn’t want to forget it, either. He knows that it’s easy to guess someone’s password if they use something like their mother’s maiden name. And he’d put numbers in it. So it’s probably . . .” He hunches over his laptop and types rapidly for a minute, then grins. “I’m in!”

“No way!” Allison says. “What is it?”

“Gingersnaps,” Scott says, grinning, “with a one instead of an I and fives instead of S’s.”

“That is so Stiles!” Allison says, as the others snicker.

Scott turns he webcam so they can see what he’s doing on the computer. The inbox has loaded, and it’s almost empty. He gives it a quick skim, but it doesn’t appear to be anything important. A couple emails from Groupon, one from one of his professors about an upcoming study group, one from a recipe trading group he’s obviously part of. “Let’s hope that Ian signs off his e-mails with his name,” he says, typing ‘Ian’ into the search bar.

“He will,” Isaac says. “Stiles gave him that name.”

He’s barely finished speaking when Scott’s computer displays a list of e-mails that have all been sorted into a folder labeled ‘friend or foe’. “Yes!” Scott says, clicking on the first one. It’s a lengthy missive about some adventure that Ian apparently had in Costa Rica. He decides against reading it more carefully, to keep his sanity, and hits ‘compose’.

“Okay, what should I write?” Scott asks.

Allison considers. “I guess just tell him who you are and why you’re emailing. I don’t think it needs to be fancy. Regardless of what this guy believes, we’re not actually best buddies.”

“Okay. But I’m going to say that I’m you. He’ll know your name; he might not remember mine.” Scott types for a few minutes, then says, “How does this sound? ‘This is Allison Argent. Stiles has been captured and may have been taken to the hunter prison in Wyoming. We are hoping that you know where that is and will be willing and able to help us find it. Please respond ASAP. Time is critical.’ Sound good?”

“Sounds good to me,” Allison says, and Scott hits send. She lets out a breath. “God, I hope that works,” she says.

“Well, it’s not our only chance,” Scott points out. “Your great-aunt said she would check the place out, and she seems to be a woman of her word. So if Ian can’t get us there, hopefully Vanessa will be able to find him. And Deaton and I will keep looking. We’ll be at the crash site tomorrow. Deaton’s been checking along the way today in case they headed west, but so far, nothing. We’ll be back on the road at dawn.”

“Okay.” Allison wants to argue that they should drive through the night, but she knows that magic is tiring, and that Deaton’s powers wane at night. He’ll do better once the sun is up. So there isn’t really anything she can say. “I’m going to go check in on my parents. You get some sleep. Call me tomorrow once you’re on the road, okay?”

“Sure,” Scott says. “Love you,” he adds. “You too,” he adds to Isaac and Mac. “Talk to you soon.”

Allison sighs as the connection ends, and she closes the laptop. “Think we should put this stuff away?” she asks.

“Hell, no,” Isaac says. “Let Stiles deal with it when he gets back. It’s his own fault for getting captured.”

Mac snickers a little but then says, “No, we should at least put it back in the closet. Jake and Phil are staying here, remember?”

“Oh, right,” Isaac says, and they start cramming everything back into Stiles’ closet. “Allison, are you sure you don’t want to stick around for a while? I think Papa Stilinski was planning on getting Mexican food for dinner. You know, he said he’s taking the opportunity to eat all the fattening stuff while Stiles is gone, because that’s the best way to make sure that Stiles comes back. Can’t let that go, you know?”

Allison smiles wearily. “I appreciate it, but . . . it’s easier for my dad when I’m around. So I’ll see you later.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Despite the fact that sleep was what he needed, Stiles doesn’t feel much better afterwards. He feels sluggish and sore when the door to the room opens and the woman in the white lab coat walks in. He figures that at least eight hours have passed, because it’s the same woman, but she’s wearing different clothes under the coat. “Hey, what’s for breakfast?” he greets her, because being cheerful is keeping him from having a complete freak-out. She ignores him, as before. “You know, I could probably help you with this testing if you would just talk to me.”

The woman examines the bruises on his face and then starts speaking into her recorder. “Bruising on day two is compatible with a human rate of healing. We will begin testing his healing factor with a small, non-lethal dose of TTX.”

“Hey, wow, no,” Stiles says, struggling against the straps. “I really don’t do well with poisons. I hate being poisoned. What’s TTX? Isn’t that the stuff from pufferfish? Are you _sure_ it’s a non-lethal dose? Because I’m pretty sure that extremely small doses of that are – oh my God get _off_ me, you sick freak – ”

As passionate as his tirade is, it makes absolutely no difference. He can’t even budge the straps, and there’s nothing he can do except watch as she slides the needle into his arm. About ten minutes later, he starts to feel tingling and prickling in his arms and legs. It’s a little like wolfsbane poisoning, which he’s had the bad luck to experience more than once. Everything starts to feel stiff, and then everything starts to hurt. He can feel his lungs and throat tightening, and starts gasping for air.

The woman walks over and takes off the restraints, then stands back and watches him for a moment. Stiles knows he’ll never make it to the door, that she just wants to observe the effects of the poison on him. So he continues to stare at the ceiling. After a moment, he rolls over and curls into a ball. His stomach and chest are sending shooting pains all throughout his body.

“Subject is experiencing shortness of breath and moderate paralysis,” she says into her recorder, and Stiles doesn’t bother to correct her although he thinks he could still move if he had to. Let her underestimate how well he can deal with poison, let her record that into some book somewhere for all his enemies to see. He’ll just lie there and let her.

After a little while, the pain starts to fade. She must be able to see his muscles relaxing and know that the poison is wearing off, so she rolls him onto his back and fastens the restraints again. “Subject showed classic symptoms of typical severity; however, duration was only two hundred and twenty minutes rather than the standard four to six hours.”

“Bully for me,” Stiles rasps through numb lips.

She starts the IV again. “Prolonged testing of your ability to endure deprivation will wait until we’ve done the basics,” she says, actually addressing him for the first time.

Stiles licks his lips and says, “Saline and glucose drip?”

“For now,” she says, which he takes to mean that they might have to move on to other ways to keep his system going during the experiments. He hopes those ways include a cheeseburger.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks her.

The woman shrugs. “It’s my job,” she says, and goes back to the things she has gathered on the counter. Then she clicks the recorder back on. “Test two has completed; all information has been uploaded.”

“Where are my friends?” he tries.

Her response to that is to continue to speak into the recorder. “We will now initiate the third test to measure the subject’s response to different voltages.”

“Nooooo,” Stiles says. He means for it to come out as a comical moan, but somehow the comedy never makes it anywhere near his voice. He’s terrified, and he can’t hide it. He has to choke back tears as she comes over and starts applying electrodes to his chest. He reminds himself that he’s survived worse. He’ll survive this. But he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut and burrow as far into himself as possible.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

As much as it would be nice to get some real food and sleep in her own bed, Allison knows it’s not an option. She picks up some Thai food, which her father loves, before heading back to the clinic. Deaton has loaned her his spare keys, so she’s able to let herself in through the back. Moments later, she finds herself pinned to a wall with a knife at her throat.

She doesn’t fight back. That would be a good way to get killed. Instead, she keeps her voice calm and even. “Dad, it’s me, it’s Allison.”

“Prove it,” he snaps.

Allison starts singing the lullaby he always sang to her when she was little. She can’t carry a tune in a bucket – Scott teases her about it all the time – but it gets the idea across. Chris backs away, shoulders heaving for breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Allison says, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and hugging him as hard as she can. She lets him hang onto her for a minute before asking, “Where’s mom?”

“Oh, she just – ” Chris looks around as if spooked, but fortunately, Victoria emerges from the bathroom and then gives them both a questioning look. “There she is.” He manages a wan smile. “Is that Thai food? Smells great. Let’s eat.”

Allison nods and they sit down around the little table in Deaton’s back room. It’s awkward, although she’s had family dinners that were worse. Nobody has said anything about how long the Argents are going to have to stay in the clinic. They just don’t know. As long as the sorcerer is still out there, neither of them are safe anywhere else.

It can’t last indefinitely, and Scott says that Deaton had mentioned the possibility of a spell that could destroy Chris and Victoria’s hair from a distance, but then Stiles and the others had disappeared and everyone had gotten sidetracked. There’s nothing they can do about that. They just have to wait it out.

“How are the kids doing?” Victoria asks, setting out some of the food while Allison hands her father a soda and fishes around for the plastic silverware. “Did you spend any time with them while you were at the Stilinski house?”

“I saw them for a few minutes,” Allison says. “They seemed okay.”

Victoria nods. She doesn’t start eating. “Apparently,” she says, “Julien went to Henry and Rose’s house to confront them about their role in things, but they weren’t there. He’s been trying to call them but he hasn’t gotten an answer.”

A chill goes down Allison’s spine. The obvious answer is that Henry and Rose got the hell out of dodge when things went south, but somehow she doesn’t think that’s what happened. She fishes her phone out of her purse and starts texting Mac. Maybe she can work some computer magic and locate Henry’s phone, since they have the number.

“Did you find whatever it was you were looking for, at Stiles’ house?” Victoria asks.

“Yeah,” Allison says. “There’s someone who might be able to help. I know we’re supposed to wait for Vanessa, but . . .”

“It’s no bad thing to have multiple balls in motion,” Victoria says. “Julien can look for Henry and Rose, Vanessa can check the facility, Dr. Deaton can look for them with magic, and whatever your friend can do – one of these things has to get a hit.” She looks up, concerned, as Chris sets his fork down and presses a hand against his face. “What is it, honey?”

“This – this is all my fault,” Chris says. “If I hadn’t – ”

“It is _not_ your fault,” Victoria says, her voice as cold as ice. “It is in absolutely no way your fault.”

“I know – I know I wasn’t entirely in control, but I could have – could have fought harder, should have been able to fight it off, I _knew_ it didn’t make sense and I – ”

“Chris, stop,” Victoria says. She reaches across the table and grips both his hands in hers. “I know that there’s no way I can imagine what this feels like. But it _wasn’t_ your fault. I know exactly how hard you must have fought. No one in the world could have fought harder.”

“I remember all of it,” Chris says, pulling one hand free so he can rub it over his eyes. “I remember thinking that something was wrong, but every time I tried to think clearly, it just – just dragged me back under. Going after Stiles – it seemed so _right_. And now that’s what I think about every time we talk about him. Not that I tried to kill him, but that I _wanted_ to.”

“I know,” Victoria says, “but even then, you were still fighting. You used Kate’s perfume so the others would know something was wrong. You _never_ stopped fighting, Chris.”

“I thought I was going crazy,” Chris says. “I wanted to tell you, but . . .”

“But the spell wouldn’t let you,” Victoria says. “I know.” She grips his hands again and squeezes them even harder. “But you’re going to be okay, Chris. It’s going to be hard, but we’re going to get through it, because you’re the strongest, most amazing man that I know.”

Chris has to take a few deep breaths before he manages to nod and squeeze her hands back. Allison is trying to think of something to say when her phone rings. All of them jump. “Sorry!” she says, grabbing it to see that it’s Isaac. “Hey, what’s up? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Isaac says. “I just wanted to let you know, we’ve been watching Stiles’ email, and Ian replied. It’s a no go,” he continues, ripping the metaphorical Band-Aid off before Allison can get her hopes up. “He says that he wasn’t really cognizant when they took him out of the facility and he has no idea where it is.”

“Damn,” Allison says, shaking her head. “Okay. You guys stay with Jake and Phil. We’ll just wait to hear from either Vanessa or Scott and Deaton, then.”

“You don’t have to stay here, honey,” Victoria says. “We’re fine here. You should be with your friends.”

Allison is a little torn on this subject. To be honest, she would far rather go crash back at the Stilinski house, if only because she could sleep on the sofa or the easy chair, rather than on the floor. But she doesn’t want to leave her parents. She settles on a compromise. “I’ll stay a few more hours and then head back there to get some sleep.”

Victoria nods. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Chris is quiet for a minute. “How are Jake and Phil?”

Allison lets out a breath. “I think – Jake’s scared, but he’s holding up, because he knows that Phil is a mess. I want to be angry at him, but God, what his parents must have put him through. He’s just a kid, you know? And the worst part is, Rose spent years and years telling him to quit going on about the whole acting thing – it’s clearly his dream – and then turned around and used it to manipulate him. Telling him about how she knew he could do it because of what a great actor he was. God, I wish she was here so I could kick her in the crotch.”

“Trust me, when I get a face-to-face with my cousin-in-law, that is the _last_ thing she’s going to be worried about,” Victoria says.

Allison really doesn’t want to hear about whatever horrible things her mother has planned for Henry and Rose Argent, so she lightens the mood by saying, “Are you going to feed her that vegan food Stiles gave you recipes for?”

Chris laughs at that. “I respect vegans,” he says. “They have a lot more self-control than I do.”

“Okay, but remember that weird cinnamon roll Stiles tried to make that was actually made out of dates and walnuts?” Allison’s laughing, remembering the trip a health food store in San Francisco, where Stiles had gotten a recipe for a vegan, soy-free, gluten-free cinnamon roll. It had been so disgusting that even Mac wouldn’t eat it. “We could make her eat those.”

“Good plan,” Chris says, and it suddenly occurs to Allison that that will only happen if they get Stiles home. She suddenly misses her pack so badly that her stomach aches with it.

Both her parents seem to notice, and Victoria puts an arm around her shoulders, drawing her into an embrace. “We’ll find them, Allison,” Victoria says. “I promise. One way or another, we’ll find them.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Strength testing, Stiles is discomfited to learn, basically means having to hold large weights above himself as long as he can, knowing that if he drops them, they’ll land right on his chest and probably break several of his ribs. He pushes upwards on the inexorably descending metal as long as he can, until his arms are screaming for relief and his fingers are raw and aching. As with the swimming test, it’s taken away mere moments before it would actually kill him.

But the worst test is when they put a sandwich underneath a plastic box and then put a weight on top of it. He wants that sandwich more than anything else in the world, and he pushes and pulls and strains to move the weights. When he finally gets them to budge far enough that he’ll be able to get to the sandwich, he’s grabbed before he can reach it and strapped down again.

He throws a fit of hysteria so deep and thorough that he doesn’t even remember it later, but only hears the woman clinically dictate about his actions. He closes his eyes, tries to hold back the sobs that want to escape, and reminds himself that he has to make the most of the breaks they give him. He never knows how long it’ll be before the next test. He has to get some rest.

He’s on the edge of unconsciousness when he hears the door to his cell open and then an odd noise, kind of a buzzing. He tries to shake himself awake, and then there’s a loud clatter. The woman in the lab coat has stood up and dropped her recorder. “No . . . no . . .” she’s saying, backing away. Stiles looks up at the door and sees a swarm of bees.

It’s so bizarre and incongruous that for a long minute, he assumes he must be dreaming. He’s had vivid, realistic nightmares before. This is nothing new. But usually, as soon as he realizes that he’s asleep, he jerks back awake. That doesn’t happen this time. Instead, the bees swarm the woman, and she starts to scream. She screams long and loud, and Stiles starts to struggle to get away, but he feels so weak, he can barely budge the restraints.

A minute later, there’s a thud. The woman’s body falls to the ground, twitching. The bees move around for a few moments and then start to coalesce into a different shape. A human shape. It happens fast. One minute there are just insects, and then features start to come into view, and Stiles finds he’s looking at someone with his own face.

“What . . . what the . . .” Stiles can’t even manage to finish the sentence.

“Hello, Stiles,” the doppelganger says. “It’s been a long time. Do you remember me?”

“You . . . you’re me,” Stiles says, his voice cracking.

“What? Oh.” There’s a ripple and then the figure’s feature shifts. He’s Peter Hale, and then he’s Kate Argent, and then he’s suddenly Stiles again. “I admit I’ve been taking your face on a majority of the time. I find that I like it.”

“Who . . . Ian?” Stiles asks, blinking, caught between confusion and disbelief.

“The one and only!” The body shifts and becomes Peter Hale again, reaching out and tearing the restraints loose from the wall. Stiles takes a step forward, and his knees immediately give. Ian catches him and keeps him on his feet.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Stiles asks.

“I’m rescuing you, obviously,” Ian says, with a smirk that looks perfectly at home on Peter’s face, which then melts back into Stiles’. “Your pack contacted me. Allison. See, they were sure that you had to be in one of these facilities.” He waves to indicate their surroundings. “But they didn’t know where they were. What they did know was that I knew where one of them was, and so there was a fifty-fifty shot that I’d be able to find you.”

“Jesus,” Stiles says. He’s so shaky that he has to sit down and hold his head between his knees for a minute, concentrating on his breathing. It’s not exactly how he wants to look in front of Ian, who’s a tenuous ally even at the best of times, but he can’t help it. “Are the others okay? What did they say?”

“Oh, I didn’t actually see them,” Ian says. “Allison found the e-mails I had sent you and she wrote me to ask me if I knew where either of the facilities were. I told her that I didn’t, and came straight here.”

“Wait, what? Why?” Stiles looks up at this. “You lied to her?”

“I knew how to _get_ here, but geographically, I have no idea where this place is,” Ian says. “If I had told her that, she would have wanted me to first go to Beacon Hills, then act as their guide. It was much quicker, and therefore safer for you, if I came here directly.” He beams at Stiles benevolently. “It does look like it’s a good thing I came straightaway.”

Stiles can’t argue with that. He hauls himself to his feet. “Do you know where the others are?”

“I can find them. I can feel their fear.” Ian gestures to the door. “Shall we?”

“Isn’t everybody here afraid?” Stiles asks.

“Well, the guards aren’t, and other than them, as far as I can tell, you and your pack are the only people in the prison.”

Stiles stops in the doorway. “We’re the only ones here? No, that doesn’t make any sense. This place was – ”

“Home to several dozen creatures at least,” Ian agrees. “But they cleaned it out before your arrival. What happened to the former residents, I could wager a guess, but I don’t think we really would like to go there, would we? Now, you stay close to me, and let me handle anyone who comes our way.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of the frying pan....

 

Stiles has to admit that he’s happy to let Ian handle things. He staggers along behind the shapeshifter, wondering what’s wrong with him. Sleep deprivation, dehydration, starvation – how long has it been since they left Beacon Hills? It seems like it’s been several days, at least. He hopes the others are all right. On top of that, every muscle aches both from the aftermath of the plane crash and what the woman in the lab coat had been doing to him.

He’s so exhausted that he can’t quite bring himself to care about the fact that Ian just straight-up murdered a woman in front of him. Or to care about the fact that Ian’s clearly intending to do it again. They’ve barely gotten fifty feet from the room he had been kept in when a guard rounds the corner. His gun comes up, but Ian almost immediately shifts forms into a shockingly enormous kind of troll. The bullets bounce right off his thick, leathery skin, and he removes the man’s head from his shoulders with one swipe.

Then he melts back into Stiles’ form and keeps walking as if nothing had ever happened and there isn’t blood splattered all over the hallway.

“Why do you look like me?” Stiles asks, as they pick up the pace. “Did you meet someone that afraid of me?”

“Oh, well, sort of,” Ian says. “ _I’m_ that afraid of you. You are, after all, the only person who’s ever really come close to killing me. I didn’t actually intend for it to happen, but I found myself taking on this form sort of as a default, when I wasn’t actively trying to be someone or something else.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. It doesn’t make him feel great about Ian’s loyalty. “Then why are you helping me?”

Ian looks at him with a somewhat blank expression. Then he smiles. “Being afraid of you doesn’t mean I don’t like you, Stiles. In my case, just the opposite. You’re my favorite! This way, now.”

Stiles just shakes his head because it’s clear that there are some things he’s never going to understand. Ian looks human, but he isn’t, and he obviously operates on a completely different set of morals and personality traits from Stiles. And at the moment, he’s the one getting them out of the facility, so Stiles isn’t even sure he cares.

The facility is big enough that it could easily house the several dozen creatures that Ian had mentioned. They have to walk for several minutes through narrow, brightly lit hallways. Two more guards are encountered and just as quickly slaughtered. “Normally I don’t go for quick kills,” Ian says, taking a set of keys off the body of a guard. “Or even kills at all. I mean, you can’t be afraid if you’re dead. But I figure we don’t really want anyone to spread a system-wide alarm.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. He’s feeling a little numb, which he supposes is a good thing, considering the alternative. Watching Ian kill a few of the people who had helped torture him isn’t making that big of an impression on him.

“Here,” Ian says, ripping a door off its hinges and showing Stiles down a narrow corridor. “All the cells are mountain ash,” he says, unlocking the first door. “But opening the door will break the circle, so they should be able to get out all right.”

“Great,” Stiles says. The first door swings open and Boyd is standing there anxiously, having heard the noise. He grabs Stiles in a hug the instant the door is out of the way.

“Man, am I glad to see you,” he says.

“No shit,” Stiles says, hugging back tightly.

The next cell has Lydia, then Erica, then Danny. Stiles’ hands are shaking as he clings to them, terrified that Derek will be somewhere else, that they won’t be able to find him. But the last door opens to reveal his lupa, who immediately bursts out of the cell and grabs him. Ian stands in the doorway to the corridor, looking mellow and amused, occasionally glancing over his shoulder.

Erica spots him first. “Stiles, what the _fuck_ ,” she blurts out, and the other pack members similarly gape at the Stiles lookalike.

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says. “For those of you who haven’t met him before, this is Ian. He’s a shapeshifter. Lately he’s been using my face because, I don’t know, he’s weird and has a crush on me. Ian, this is Lydia, Boyd, and Danny. You’ve met Erica and Derek.”

“Indeed I have,” Ian says, with a smirk. The last time he had seen Derek, the werewolf had punched him in the face. But Ian doesn’t seem to be harboring any hard feelings.

“Since he came from this facility, I guess Allison and the others called him up to come get us,” Stiles says. “I’ll give you the details once we’re out of here. Anyway, let him handle the guards, he’s better equipped for it.”

“Do you know the way out of here?” Boyd asks.

Ian shrugs. “No, but we’ll find it.”

Derek rolls his eyes, then turns to Stiles and says quietly, “Hey. You seem . . . tired. Do you need help?”

It’s a very tactful way to describe how Stiles knows he looks. He’s freaked out and exhausted and he knows they can all tell he was screaming and crying. He’d rather lie down for about a decade, but obviously that won’t be happening until they get out of here. “Yeah,” he says, and just leans against Derek. “Carry me?”

“Okay.” Derek scoops Stiles up in a reverse piggyback without waiting for further input. Stiles rests his cheek against Derek’s shoulder and just holds on, letting Derek’s scent and the feeling of his heartbeat bring some calm back to him.

Fortunately for them, the building isn’t constructed like a maze. There’s no reason for it to be; it’s a prison, not a casino. The people who work there have to be able to get in and out on a daily basis. Less fortunately, the first exit they find takes them out onto the side of a mountain. There’s a concrete platform that’s about ten feet wide and then a narrow staircase leading down. Stiles looks down over Derek’s shoulder and sees a parking lot down below them.

“They like their employees to get their exercise, I guess,” Boyd says. He puts one foot on the first stair and nearly slips. “Shit. Kind of icy.”

It’s cold, too. They’re definitely up in the mountains, and the wind is whipping at all of them. Still, if they can get down, maybe they can hotwire a car or something like that. Stiles really doesn’t want to have to wander around the forest when whoever runs this place is going to be looking for them. It’s a miracle if any of the people Ian killed haven’t been found already.

“Maybe there’s another exit somewhere,” Erica says.

Lydia is looking around. “Yes, over there,” she says, pointing. “The building is shaped like an H and it seems to be built into the side of the mountain. That one has a loading dock and then a road down.”

“Okay, let’s head that way,” Derek agrees, but as soon as they get inside, he stiffens. “Someone’s coming,” he says, and a moment later Stiles hears what the werewolf heard: the steady click-clack of high-heeled shoes approaching them. “Ian?” he adds, propelling the shapeshifter in front of them.

But Ian is standing still and surprised, eyes going minutely wide. He shakes his head decisively and says, “No, we can’t get past her. Go. Go!” He pushes Erica, and then Lydia, back out onto the balcony.

“What? Why can’t we – ” Stiles starts.

“Go! Jump!” Ian shouts, and then he does a nosedive off the balcony himself.

“Oh, shiiiiiii – ” Stiles says, as Derek jumps after him. He closes his eyes tightly, but then hits a soft surface only a moment later. Feathers. He opens his eyes and finds that he’s on the back of some enormous bird. The others land badly, and it’s a hasty scramble to make sure everyone stays on Ian’s back. Erica winds up clutched in the bird’s talons, shrieking up a storm.

Several beats of Ian’s powerful wings take them down the side of the mountain, and Stiles is shaking uncontrollably by the time they touch down in a little clearing. “W-What the f-f-f-f,” he stammers, as Derek pulls him into a hug, hands rubbing up and down his back in an attempt to warm him up.

The bird dissolves into a shower of dust and black feathers, and then Stiles-shaped-Ian is standing there again. He’s a little paler than before. “I couldn’t fight her,” he says. “She wasn’t afraid of anything.”

Stiles shudders and clings to Derek. “Maybe you just couldn’t – ”

“No, you’re not understanding the import of this,” Ian says, and he looks a little shaken himself. “Everyone is afraid of something. _Everyone_. Even if it’s only the lingering fear of the dark from when they were a child. That’s practically a genetic, congenital fear. Everyone is afraid of _something_. And I can always tell. As soon as I can feel their presence, hear or see them, as soon as I know they exist, I know what they fear. And that person who was approaching us feared _nothing_.”

“What does that mean?” Boyd asks quietly, helping Erica up.

“I’ve only ever met one person like that before,” Ian says, “and like this time, I got away from him as soon as I could. Only one type of person has no fear, and that’s a genuine psychopath. Someone who truly _believes_ that they are the center of the universe, that they are stronger, smarter, better, than everyone and everything else. Someone who believes that they’re invincible. It’s the most dangerous person there is.”

Stiles looks back up the mountain and says, “I wonder if that was the mastermind. It fits. The sort of person who likes to play games, to hurt others just for fun, just to see what they’ll do.”

“If it was, then it’s a woman,” Lydia says. “No man’s shoes make that sort of noise.”

“Well, if we meet her again, I’ll recognize her,” Ian says.

Stiles shakes his head. He’s not about to climb back up the mountain to find out whether or not they’re right. He needs rest, he needs food, he needs – he needs to _stop_ for a little while. “Come on, guys,” he says. “We’ve gone from being in the middle of the Utah desert to the middle of the Wyoming wilderness. It sucks either way, so let’s get moving.”

It would have been nice if they had a phone so they could see if they had service, but none of them have any of their stuff, and Ian doesn’t have a phone of his own. “Not the sort of thing I need,” he says with a shrug.

“Do you check your email at a public library, or what?” Danny asks him.

“Yes, usually. Why?”

Derek snorts with laughter. “Sometimes it takes supernatural creatures a while to catch up on technology,” he says. “Especially if they’re old.”

“You should just be glad I know what e-mail is,” Ian says, “or you’d still be rotting inside that prison.”

“Fair enough,” Stiles says. He stumbles a little, and Derek gets him by the elbow.

“You’re sure you’re okay to walk?” the werewolf asks.

“Yeah, I’m just tired,” Stiles says.

Derek stops walking and assesses him for a minute, then says, “If it were anyone else, you’d be saying ‘swallow your pride, we’ll make better time if someone carries you’.”

Stiles makes a face at him, then says, “Fine. Just . . . alternate, okay? I don’t want to be too much of a burden.”

“Okay,” Derek says, thoughtfully not commenting. He lets Stiles ride regular piggy-back this time, so he can face forward, and starts walking again. Once he’s a little bit ahead of the others and they have some semblance of privacy, he says quietly, “Really, though, you look . . . worse than tired. You weren’t with the rest of us. Are you all right?”

Stiles leans against him, pressing his chin into Derek’s shoulder. “I was . . . they did some experiments on me. Hurt me.” He can feel, more than hear, Derek let out a low growl. “Because I’m the human alpha, and nobody really understands what that means. They. . . I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Physically, I think I’m all right, and emotionally I’ll recover. I just need to . . .” He swallows the hysteria down and evens out his voice. “I want my dad, and my pack, and I just want to go home. You know?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. He adjusts Stiles a little and says, “Then let’s get you home.”

It’s not as bad as their trek through the desert. It’s chilly, but the movement keeps them all warm. The terrain is more difficult – rocky forest paths, in places slippery or dense. Most of them stay in their wolf forms, with the exception of Ian and whoever is carrying Stiles, which they do about an hour at a time. They can tell time, since several of them still have their watches, but they don’t really know where they’re going. The forest is too dense to get a good look at the sun, but even if they knew which direction they were going, they have no real idea what direction they _should_ be going. Stiles wants to head north, to get them the hell off Nazario territory, but he has no real idea how far they are from Montana or whether or not they could get there. Ian takes the lead, saying he’ll get them back to civilization, but Stiles doesn’t know how long that will take.

Gradually, he nods off, face resting against Lydia’s shoulder.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Spending the night in the Wyoming wilderness is not an experience that Stiles thinks he’s going to remember fondly. He’s definitely had worse nights, but it’s cold, and eerily quiet. It’s completely dark, too. The wood is all too wet to start a fire, and the moon is new. Even the desert wasn’t quite so dark. Ever since his two days in Peter’s car, Stiles has slept with a night light and a source of white noise. He doesn’t even care if he’s just pandering to himself. It’s the only way he can sleep.

Now he doesn’t have either of those two things, and every tiny forest noise sends his heart into his mouth. He dozes, drifts, has bad dreams. Normally he would get up and start baking, or even plug himself full of caffeine and just stay up, but neither of those things are options now. So he spends a lot of time shifting restlessly and staring at the dark sky.

As soon as there’s a hint of light, he has everybody up. He wants to get moving. Erica was up on watch, and she helps him get the others up. She frowns down at Ian’s sleeping form, wearing Stiles’ face. Stiles thinks she’s going to say something about Ian’s general lack of trustworthiness or creepiness or something along those lines. Instead, she suddenly groans and says, “I’m _so horny_ ,” and Stiles laughs so hard that his ribs ache. It feels good to laugh.

“I feel good enough to walk,” he says, when Derek asks, and the werewolf gives him the side-eye. “At least for now. Ask me again in a couple hours.”

“Okay,” Derek says.

More than anything, it’s hunger that’s bothering Stiles now. They’ve got water, in the source of a few patches of snow, and the pain of the experiments is fading to a certain degree. He’s used to sleep deprivation. But his stomach has wrapped itself around his spine in search of nutrients. He finds himself fantasizing about cheeseburgers and spaghetti and his grandmother’s borscht as they trudge through the forest.

They walk all morning, trudging over the uneven ground, and has to stop and let the others carry him twice. It’s a few hours into the afternoon when Ian says, “Ah, here we are,” and Stiles stumbles up beside him to see a road. An honest-to-God paved _road_ , the asphalt slick with the light rain that’s been falling. It’s only two lanes, but it looks well travelled enough. He nearly throws himself to the ground to start kissing the pavement. The others are hastily shifting back into human forms and throwing their clothes on.

“Which way?” Derek asks.

Ian shrugs. “Where are we trying to go?”

“North,” Stiles says.

“If only we had a cork and a magnet,” Lydia grumbles. “Then I could make a compass.” But she glances up at the sun and says, “This looks like more of an east-west road.”

“Okay, then . . .” West will take them onto Stella Jones’ territory, which is arguably even worse than Nazario territory. “East,” he decides, and they start walking.

Two cars pass, one going in each direction. Stiles waves at them, but they go past without stopping, probably intimidated by the large group of grubby teenagers. He’s contemplating throwing himself in the road in front of the next one, but then he sees the blessed bubble lights on the top. The police car pulls over as soon as it sees them.

“You really shouldn’t hike on this road,” the officer is saying as he gets out of the car. Stiles glances at the side and sees that it’s Wyoming State Police.

“Hey, officer, I’m so glad to see you,” Stiles says, “because we’re incredibly lost and we’ve been hiking for days because our stupid plane crashed.” He sees the look of surprise and some skepticism on the man’s face and continues, “My dad is a police officer, Sheriff of Beacon Hills County in California. You should be able to verify it. We were on a chartered flight and the engine failed. Oh, my name’s Stiles. Stilinski. My dad’s name is Tom Stilinski.”

“Hang on,” the officer says, and heads back to his car. He spends a minute on his radio, then gets back out. “Okay, they’re sending someone out to pick you kids up,” he says, and Stiles starts humming the Hallelujah chorus. “You look pretty banged up. Do you want to call your dad? You can use my phone if you want.”

“Yes, oh my God, thank you so much,” Stiles says, accepting the cell phone from the officer. He wonders how they’re going to get their things back from the facility in Wyoming. “Do we even have coverage here? I kept trying mine but then the battery finally died and we were still in a no service area.”

“It can be spotty,” the man agrees, “but we’re close enough to Cody that we can usually get a signal. If not, you can call when we get you to the hospital.”

“Thanks.” Stiles sees that the phone has two bars, and dials. He holds his breath through the moment of silence, and then it rings. He gives everyone a thumbs up, and his father picks up a moment later. “Hey, Dad, it’s me,” he says.

“Stiles! Where the _hell_ are you?” Sheriff Stilinski demands.

“Apparently somewhere near Cody, Wyoming,” Stiles says. “Wherever that is. Uh, the plane went down, I don’t know if you knew that or if you just knew we hadn’t gotten to Illinois.”

“They found the wreckage in Utah,” Tom says. “Jesus, it’s good to hear your voice. Hang on – Allison?” Back into the receiver, he says, “She’s been helping me go through – hey, Allison, it’s Stiles.”

“Stiles!” Allison clamors in the background. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yeah, everyone’s fine, we’ve got some bruises and scratches and I would literally beg for a cheeseburger but overall we seem to have pulled through. We’ve been walking for-fucking-ever and – hang on, I think our ride is here.” He looks up as an ambulance pulls up and two EMTs hop out. “Paramedics. They’re going to want to check me out. Look, Dad, if you can wire me some money or something I’ll just rent a car and drive home. No way am I getting back on a plane.”

“No kidding,” Tom says. A little more hesitantly, he says, “I take it that you don’t have any of your stuff, probably for reasons you don’t want to say out loud in front of people not-in-the-know?”

“Got it in one,” Stiles says. “Listen, I’ll call you later. They’re taking us to the hospital. We can work out the details later. Is everyone on your end okay, anything I need to know?”

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Tom says. “You go get your cheeseburger.” His voice gets momentarily rough. “God, I’m glad you’re okay. Call me back as soon as you can.”

“Will do. Thanks, Dad. Love you,” he adds, and then hangs up. Derek immediately has him by the elbow and gets him sitting down on the back of the ambulance. The EMTs shine a flashlight in his eyes and check out some of his bruises before they start ushering everyone into the ambulance as a second one pulls up. Stiles hates the idea of having to split up, even for a short ride, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

Fortunately, everyone gets to the hospital unscathed. Also fortunately, the doctors don’t know the extent of the crash. When one of them remarks, “I’m amazed you aren’t hurt worse,” Stiles replies with, “Well, it was more of an unplanned landing than an actual crash,” and tells them that it wasn’t as rough as it could have been. They haven’t seen the wreckage, so they take his word on it. He, of course, has the worst bruises.

Even the werewolves are dehydrated, so everyone gets an IV. Ian has been hanging around in the background as Stiles’ brother (Stiles always wanted an identical twin) and he seems baffled by the concept, but doesn’t object. “When I’m in this form, I’m as human as can be,” he explains, when there isn’t anyone in earshot. “That’s why you were able to beat the crap out of me that one time. I was only as strong as a human woman.”

The IV has a glucose drip as well as saline, since they’re half-starved, and Stiles starts to feel better pretty much immediately. The officer who picked them up shows up with pizza and wins the position of Stiles’ current favorite person in the universe. “Some guy from the FAA is going to come ask you some questions,” he says, before leaving.

The guy does show up, but doesn’t have many questions. It’s obvious that he’s familiar with the supernatural world and knows exactly who Stiles is. He says he’s talked with Sheriff Stilinski and that he’s going to make sure that everything that needs to get swept underneath a rug ends up there. Stiles thanks him and offers him a slice of pizza, which he declines, amused.

After that, Stiles dozes for a little while, thinking about how they’re going to get home, how they’re going to get their things back. He doesn’t even know how wiring money works. It’s just not the sort of thing he’s worried about, given that it’s 2014.

A nurse comes in again to look at the amount of pizza they’ve demolished with an impressed expression, then says, “Stiles, your father is on the phone.”

“Oh, cool,” Stiles says. “Thanks.” He gets up and trots after her. She hands him the phone at the nurse’s station. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, kiddo,” Tom says. “We’ve been talking to some people here and we’re sending someone to pick you up. Vanessa Nazario. You remember hearing Allison talk about her?”

“Yeah, the great-aunt who doesn’t suck,” Stiles says. “Okay.”

“She was heading your direction anyway because she had agreed to go to their prison and see if you were there. I’m guessing maybe you boosted yourselves out a little ahead of schedule?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Stiles says.

“Good,” Tom says. “She’ll be there in about an hour. The hospital is going to keep you until then. Vanessa’s going to drive you part way – she’s got a place in southern Wyoming where you guys can stay the night – and then she’ll give you some money that Victoria’s going to send to her, so you can get yourself a car to drive back to California. Does that all sound workable?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Stiles says. It’s not too late in the day, but he’s exhausted, and now that he’s allowing himself to feel it, it’s bad. Everyone seems to agree that Vanessa is an okay person. If she’s willing to put them up for the night, he’ll go with it. “Hey, how’s . . . everyone?”

Tom knows what he’s really asking. “Jake and Phil are fine. They’ve been staying with me and Melissa. Chris is . . . shaky, emotionally, but he’s doing about as well as he could be and a lot better than Deaton had expected. Everyone in your pack is fine. Scott actually went with Deaton – they were in Utah trying to track you guys down using magic – but I’ve gotten in touch with them and they’ll be back before you.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, relaxing. “Okay, great. I guess I’ll see you in a couple days, then.”

“Vanessa’s going to _try_ to get your stuff back from their facility, but she didn’t make any promises,” Tom says. “But she said she’d get you a new phone so you wouldn’t be out of contact during your drive home.”

“Sounds good,” Stiles says, wondering exactly what Victoria Argent had said to her aunt to get her in such a conciliatory mood.

“You take care, kiddo. See you soon.”

“Love you bye,” Stiles agrees, waits until his father echoes it, and then hangs up. He thanks the nurse and shuffles back to the hospital bed. It’s not the comfiest of perches, and God, he wishes Derek could shift so he could have a ‘service dog’ to cuddle with, but he falls asleep anyway.

When he wakes up, it looks like about an hour has passed, and the nurse is back. “Ms. Nazario is here to pick you up,” she says, and starts disconnecting their IVs and having them sign paperwork.

When they get outside, there’s an older woman standing there talking to a sheriff’s deputy. He’s frowning a little, but nodding at something that she’s saying. Stiles’ first impression of Vanessa Nazario is that she’s too fit to be called ‘elderly’ even though he knows she’s in her seventies. She’s standing next to a dark gray pick-up truck that’s got mud and salt residue splattered on it in various places.

The deputy glances at them, then says, “You take care now,” directed both at them and at Vanessa, and turns back towards the hospital.

Stiles is about to ask how they’re all going to fit in the truck – he supposes they can ride in the back although he’s fairly sure that breaks several laws – when Lydia goes stiff beside him. “You’re not Vanessa,” she says.

Everyone looks between her and the woman, and she gives a rough nod. “Ariah Nazario,” she says, a note of smug pleasure in her voice. “Vanessa couldn’t make it. Get in the truck, kids. We’re going for a ride.”

Stiles hesitates. He glances back towards the hospital, wondering if they could head back inside, and sees the deputy standing in front of the door. He’s stone faced, hand resting on the butt of his gun in its holster.

“We Nazarios have a lot of friends up here,” Ariah says, seeing where Stiles is looking. “Both ‘in the know’ and out of it. You’d best get in the truck if you know what’s good for you.”

Stiles studies her, musters up what he knows about her, what he knows about small-town life, and decides she’s right. She could shoot him right now and drive away, and everyone would call it some sort of tragic accident, a misfire. He’s not sure what Ariah intends for them, but he _is_ sure that going with her is their best option. “You heard the lady,” he says to the others. Derek gives him a glance as if to ask if he’s sure, but the others are already climbing into the bed of the truck. Stiles moves to follow them, but Ariah has his elbow and is pressing a gun into his ribs.

“Not you,” she says. “You ride in the cab with me.”

It’s a sensible move. If they all rode in the bed of the truck, they could wait until they were further away, then jump out and trust their werewolf healing to protect them. But if she keeps Stiles in the cab, none of the wolves are going anywhere.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is somewhat violent and bloody. Not, like, terribly so but I figured I would toss out a warning.
> 
> On the upside, it doesn't have a cliffhanger!

 

Stiles nods and gets in the cab. He’s anxious, but not frightened. Not yet. They have an ace-in-the-hole, something Ariah apparently knows nothing about. A quick scan of the crowd reveals Ian climbing into the truck with everybody else. Ariah hasn’t noticed the Stiles doppelganger hanging out at the back of the crowd, or maybe she honestly doesn’t realize that Stiles doesn’t have a twin brother. Once they’re away from a ton of people, Ian can transform into something more than capable of handling one old woman with a gun.

It’s going to be a bitch to figure out how to handle this and then get home, but he _will_ handle it. Maybe they can tie Ariah up, leave her on the side of the road, and take her car. She probably has a phone, too. It’s not optimal, but it’s workable.

Ariah drives in silence, staring straight ahead. They leave the city limits in under two minutes, and soon they’re on an old road with cracked pavement, leading out into a huge meadow. Stiles thinks it was probably used for ranching at some point, but it looks abandoned now.

“Where are we going?” he asks, just for the heck of it.

“Somewhere that nobody will ever find you,” she replies.

“Great,” Stiles says. “I was afraid you were taking us back to the prison, and I really wasn’t a huge fan of the service there.” He thinks about asking more questions, but decides against it. Not until he’s with the others, until he can have someone with werewolf hearing gauge Ariah’s reactions to his questions.

They drive about half an hour and finally pull up aside an old fence. He can see mountains rising sharply to their left. Ariah grabs him by the elbow and crams her gun into his ribs, pulling him out of the cab on the same side as her. The werewolves are already piling out. Ariah reaches into the cab onto the shelf behind where they were sitting and pulls out a much more impressive looking gun, some sort of assault rifle.

Ariah gives Stiles a shove so he’s standing with the others, and covers all of them with her gun. Derek walks over and presses his nose into Stiles’ hair, nuzzling slightly, and says under his breath, “There are shovels in the bed of the truck.”

“Of course there are,” Stiles replies. “Why is this my life?”

It’s funny, but it’s not, and sure enough, Ariah’s next words are, “Get those shovels and start digging.”

The wolves all look at Stiles. He folds his arms over his chest and says, “No.”

“Excuse me?” Ariah asks, gesturing with her rifle.

“You want to hear it in Spanish? No,” Stiles repeats, and several of the wolves snigger despite the situation. “For one thing, I refuse to participate in anything so cliché as digging my own God damned grave. Secondly, if you’re only going to kill us anyway, as is obviously your intention, I have no fucking reason to do anything you say. So no, thank you, I will not be participating in the festivities. You want to bury us, do it your God damned self.”

Ariah’s glower deepens. “I thought you might want to die with a little dignity,” she says. “You want to hear about what the crows and the coyotes will do to you?”

“Why would I give even the smallest fuck what the crows and coyotes will do to my dead body?” Stiles asks. “It’s not like I’ll be using it anymore.”

“Well, I thought you might want it to look okay for when your father finally finds it,” Ariah sneers at him.

Stiles’ jaw tightens, and everyone in the pack exchanges a look as if asking exactly how spectacular this blow-up is going to be. But Stiles somehow manages to remain calm. “What’s your problem with me, lady? I’m honestly curious. I’ve never met you before in my life, and now you’re talking about returning my crow-pecked corpse to my dad.”

“We met at the Conclave,” Ariah says.

“I met ninety people at the Conclave. I don’t remember you.”

“You know who I bet you do remember?” Ariah asks. “Agnes St. James.”

“If this is about that old bag, then I can guarantee you that she deserved every molecule of what I gave her,” Stiles says evenly.

Ariah waves at them with the gun. “I worked my entire life for that Conclave, did you know that? I had just celebrated my seventy-fifth birthday. I talked with Agnes on the first day about the fact that I was going to retire, and take up my position on the Council of Elders. Only because of _you_ , by the end of that Conclave, there _was_ no Council of Elders.”

“That wasn’t my decision,” Stiles says.

“Doesn’t mean it would’ve happened if it weren’t for you,” Ariah says. “So here I am, an old lady who gave their entire life for something and then got shafted at the end of it.”

“For Christ’s sake, really?” Stiles is trying to keep his temper, but failing. “That’s why you were a hunter. Really. For the recognition. Not to protect innocent lives, not to help people, but because you knew in sixty years you would retire and get, what. The ability to boss around people younger than yourself? Are you fucking kidding me right now? If you’d actually given half a damn about what you were doing, people would recognize that and respect you because of who you were and what you had done, not because of some empty fucking title!”

“You’re going to shut up if you know what’s good for you,” Ariah says, her finger tightening on the shotgun’s trigger.

“You want to kill me because you think I’m a threat to innocent lives like Stella Jones does, then kill me. You want to kill me because I embarrassed you in front of your peers like Ruben Gutierrez did, then fucking kill me. But don’t you dare kill me because you think I’m the reason that you don’t get the fucking respect that you want, because I can’t begin to list all the ways that that is _not_ my fault.”

“How about I kill you because you’re a mouthy little shit?” Ariah retorts.

Stiles can’t help but give a snort. “If people killed me for that, I’d be dead fifty times over.” He shakes his head. “What’s your play here? You can’t kill us all before one of us gets the gun from you.”

“Oh, I can with this baby,” Ariah says, giving it a little pat. “It’s got full auto. We’ve got a lot of packs up here, kid. This thing can fire thirty bullets in four seconds, and I know how to use it. You think I don’t know how to kill werewolves?” She shakes her head. “You know what the kicker is? A few of you could probably get away, if you were willing to turn tail and run. But you won’t. Werewolves just don’t do that. All for one, one for all, and all for dead. Nothing’s more predictable than a God damned werewolf.”

“In that case, you have a problem,” a voice from the back says, “because we aren’t all werewolves.”

Ian is shifting as he charges, and the others scramble to throw themselves to the side and get out of the way. He’s roughly the size of a large bear when Ariah pulls the trigger. Every bullet catches him right in center mass, but his momentum is only somewhat checked. He crashes into Ariah and knocks her to the ground, his bulk practically shielding her from view. Now the others run forward, Derek and Boyd rolling Ian off and wrestling the gun away before she can continue to fire.

“Ian!” Stiles skids to his knees beside the shapeshifter. His entire torso is a mess of blood.

“All right,” Ian wheezes. He’s still changing as he talks. First Peter, the alpha, then more forms, one with black eyes, one with translucent skin. He’s trying to find a form that can cope with the damage. “She got me before I shifted. Taken worse.”

“Jesus,” Stiles says helplessly, not sure what he can do besides let Ian try to deal with the injury. Lydia and Boyd are both next to him now, tugging off their clothes and applying pressure to the wounds, trying to keep him from bleeding out while he shifts.

Abruptly, Ian’s form changes back to Stiles. “This was fun, hm?” he murmurs, as a little bit of blood trickles out of his mouth. “We should . . . do this again . . . some . . .”

“Ian!” Stiles shouts, as the body shudders and then shifts again, flickering through forms so quickly that he can’t even catch them. And then, abruptly, the shifter is gone. He’s simply not there anymore, and Stiles is left with nothing but blood on his hands and the image of his own dying body behind his eyelids. He starts to sob into the dirt, hands clenching down on handfuls of yellowing grass.

Derek is behind him now, bent over his shaking form, trying to provide some measure of comfort. He’s seen people die before, but never a friend. Somehow, through cunning and skill and sheer dumb luck, they’ve made it this far without any casualties.

“That was _unpleasant_ ,” a voice says, and Stiles’ head jerks up. Ian is sitting on the fence, once again wearing Stiles’ face.

“What . . . you . . .” Stiles manages weakly.

“I did tell you I was all right,” Ian says, smirking at him. “I’m very hard to kill, you know. I just had to hit on the right form. It’s easy to _avoid_ injury – take the form of some behemoth made of rock – but harder to heal it once it’s been dealt.” He looks at Stiles with some surprise. “You actually thought I was dead.”

“You looked pretty God damned dead!” Stiles bites out, trying to hold back the sobs.

A broad smile blooms across Ian’s face. “I’m touched! You cried for me, Stiles! Do I get to join your pack now?”

“You . . . you can have anything you want,” Stiles says weakly, slumping against Derek’s shoulder.

“Alas, I have to decline,” Ian says. “I’m too much of a nomad. But the offer means so much to me. Maybe you’ll actually write back to me now.”

Everyone decides to give Stiles a minute to catch his breath and regain his composure. Then Boyd asks, “What are we going to do with her?”

It’s an excellent question, and one that Stiles doesn’t have an answer to. What he really wants to do is pick up her discarded weapon and blow her head off, but he’s pretty sure he’s not in the proper frame of mind to be making that decision.

There’s a long silence. Derek is finally the one who breaks it, his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, steadying him. “I don’t know if we can let her walk away,” he says.

Stiles thinks of what Peter had said. How eventually they’re going to be backed to the wall, how they _have_ to start taking enemies off the field if they want to win. He can practically feel the former alpha breathing down his neck, urging him to do it.

He’s killed before. It’s left a mark on him each time. But each of those times, it had been an option of absolute last resort. Peter’s circumstances had been unusual, of course, but both Sebastian Stone and Matt Daehler had had either a literal or a metaphorical gun to his head and the head of the people he loved. It had been the only way to stop them.

It’s _not_ the only way to stop Ariah. They have her down and disarmed. She’s not an immediate threat to them, so they don’t have to kill her. She’s not a werewolf, not somebody who can break out of prison. They have options.

He’s sunk down into a meditative trance without realizing it, but somehow he isn’t surprised to see Peter sitting on the hood of Ariah’s truck. “You might have only killed in those circumstances, but you’ve advocated death in other circumstances. Like Ruben Gutierrez. Because you were afraid he would come after you again.”

“Maybe I was wrong,” Stiles says.

“No,” Peter says. “You were absolutely right. You were preventing harm to your pack, acting on the threat of someone who had tried to kill you and yours. Ariah is no different.”

“No, she isn’t,” Stiles agrees. “But the circumstances are. Ruben was a small-time nobody, he had killed other hunters, nobody cried over his death or wanted revenge afterwards. Ariah is important. She’s got allies. And we’re at war now. If I kill her, it’s all the excuse the other hunters need to try to wipe us out.”

“You _blithering_ _idiot_ ,” Peter spits out. “They’re _already doing that_. Are you so blind as to what’s happening here? What do you think this was if not an attempt to wipe you off the face of the planet?”

“This was one woman with a grudge – ”

“One woman with a grudge who felt that the climate was right that she could take you out without consequences,” Peter says. “And she was right. The other hunters will support her. At least two or three of them were probably in on this whole thing. For God’s _sake_ , Stiles. I see where you’re coming from, and I know you don’t want to look like a monster, but from where I’m standing it is _far_ more dangerous for you to appear weak.”

Stiles says nothing to that, because Peter’s right, and there’s nothing he can say that will make him wrong. But he can’t help but think about what his father would do, or Scott, or Chris Argent. They’re the ones who have helped guide his moral compass. He’s not sure if they would advocate killing Ariah. But he’s sure of one thing.

“I don’t have to make this decision alone,” he finally says. “Ariah’s in our custody, we have her secure. I can . . . I can talk to the others. Thank you for your input, Peter. You’re right, and I know that. But I can’t just . . . I can’t kill someone in cold blood if there might be another way. With you, there was no other way. With Ariah, there might be. And if she comes back and hurts the pack later, I’ll just have to accept the blame for that.”

Peter’s gone without another word. Stiles opens his eyes and looks at Derek. “What would you do?”

Derek’s quiet for a minute before he says, “I would kill her. But not here. It needs to be . . . it can’t be ‘legal’, but we can’t just shoot her in a field while she’s unarmed and on her stomach. We need to take her back to the others and let them decide, and if execution is their answer, at least maybe it won’t be blamed on us.”

Stiles nods. “Okay. Get her up. Does she have a phone?”

“You’d better kill me,” Ariah spits out, as Derek starts going through her pockets. “If you don’t want me coming after you.”

“Yeah, trust me, I’m well aware of that,” Stiles says. He accepts the phone that Derek hands him and opens it. One bar. He goes through the list of recent calls, sees one that’s listed as ‘Vanessa’, and hits send.

A brusque voice picks up almost immediately. “’Lo?”

“Is this Vanessa Nazario?”

“Who wants to know?” Vanessa’s voice is cautious, seeing that it isn’t her sister making the call.

“This is Stiles Stilinski.”

There’s a long moment of quiet and then an explosive sigh. “Fucking _Christ_ – Ariah beat me to the punch and picked you up from the hospital.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Then she took us out into a pasture and tried to shoot us.”

“Sounds like ‘Riah,” Vanessa says. There’s another lengthy silence. “Did you kill her?”

“No,” Stiles says.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Not really, but I can get back to Cody. She didn’t blindfold us or anything.”

“Don’t go to fucking Cody. Bunch of pansy ass – get back on that road and take it east instead. It’ll hook up with route 32, take that north. After about five miles, you’ll see this big gray barn on your right. Old abandoned place, you can’t miss it. I’ll meet you there. I’m a ways south. Might be an hour or so.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He hangs up and watches as the others load Ariah onto the truck. He looks over at Ian. “You’re really okay?”

“Good as new,” Ian assures him.

“Are you angry that I didn’t kill her, after she hurt you?”

A puzzled look crosses Ian’s face. “I couldn’t care less, to be honest. I did leap onto a fully automatic weapon; I didn’t exactly expect to get away unscathed.”

“Okay.” Stiles lets out a breath and decides he doesn’t really want to drive. “Somebody who is not me, come drive the truck.”

Derek gets behind the wheel, because he’s the only other person there who knows how to drive manual. Stiles sits in the middle of the cab, sandwiched between him and Lydia, while the others ride in the bed. Derek takes it slowly, and they hope that they don’t get pulled over. But the half hour ride is uneventful.

The abandoned barn is indeed impossible to miss, and it looks like the setting for a horror movie. Derek pulls the truck around so they can’t be seen from the road, and everybody gets out except Boyd, who’s keeping watch over Ariah.

“Why did you call Vanessa?” Lydia asks.

“Because she’s been on the fence so far, and I’m really hoping that I can win some fucking brownie points by not murdering her sister when she so richly deserves it,” Stiles says.

“Nice,” Danny says.

“What if she tries to murder us, too?” Boyd asks.

“She won’t,” Stiles says. “She knows that Victoria would beat the shit out of her.”

“Well, God knows I’d be afraid of – ” Boyd’s voice breaks off as Ariah begins to cough. “Shit, Stiles, you’d better – ”

Stiles is in the bed of the truck before Boyd can finish his sentence, and sees Ariah doubled over, coughing hard. Boyd eases her onto her side, trying to hold her steady, but her face is quickly turning red, then purple. Stiles is practically paralyzed with indecision – what if it’s some sort of trick? – and helplessness. “Call 911,” he says.

Derek tugs out Ariah’s phone, then groans. “No fucking _signal_ ,” he says.

“Oh, Jesus,” Stiles says. ‘We can’t just – ” he starts, and then Ariah’s cough gives way to a wheezy rattle. Her body convulses once and then goes still. “Jesus fuck _no_ ,” he says, his mind scrambling frantically at possibilities. What’s going to happen if Vanessa shows up and finds her sister dead, after Stiles had said that she was alive? What’s going to happen when the other hunters think that Stiles killed her in cold blood? He should be relieved that she’s dead, that an enemy has been taken off the field, that she won’t be able to hurt him again. But he isn’t. He’s just upset. He’s sick of death. He’s seen enough of it. He just wants this to be over.

“Give me some room,” he says, starting chest compressions. “Danny, Lydia, go out to the road, try to flag somebody down. Maybe someone can get cell service or knows where the nearest hospital is.”

Danny and Lydia both sprint off. Stiles leans over and starts mouth-to-mouth. He’s been CPR certified, although he’s never actually had to do it before. The others watch in silence. It becomes monotonous, almost meditative. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Thirty compressions, two breaths.

“Let me take over,” Boyd says, after several minutes have gone by, rather than trying to get Stiles just to stop.

Stiles shakes his head and tries to catch his wind. “I’m already breaking her ribs; you’d crush her God damned chest.” He goes back to doing compressions. He read somewhere that those are more important than rescue breaths, but he’s not sure, so he keeps those up too.

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly, after almost five minutes have gone by.

“Don’t,” is all Stiles says in reply, so Derek doesn’t.

He keeps going, and all he can really hear is the rush of blood in his ears, his own heartbeat pounding and helping him time the compressions. He’s lost in it, so much so that he doesn’t hear anyone else approach, and he’s startled when someone grabs him by the shoulder and tugs him off and then out of the bed of the truck entirely. “Let me go,” he says, struggling weakly, looking up to see someone similar in face and stature to Ariah, but with shorter, darker hair.

“You’ve been doing CPR for twenty minutes,” Vanessa says. “She’s dead. Let it go.”

Stiles collapses against the side of the truck, panting for breath. He’s hot and dizzy; there’s a strange, metallic taste in his mouth. His vision is blurry and there’s a ringing in his ears. “I don’t feel good,” he says, trying to hold back the sobs. The day is coming that he won’t be able to anymore. He’s long overdue for a good old-fashioned nervous breakdown, but he keeps hoping that he’ll be able to put it off long enough to get back home.

A strange look crosses Vanessa’s face, a combination of realization and pain and concern. She takes out a bottle of some brownish liquid. “Drink this,” she says, and when he hesitates, she barks, “Drink it. All of it.”

Stiles takes a few swallows. Vanessa nods approvingly, and then turns back to her sister. After a minute, his stomach settles. He’s able to breathe again, and his vision clears. “I didn’t kill her,” he says to Vanessa. “I swear, I didn’t.”

“I know you didn’t,” Vanessa says. “She killed herself.”

Stiles blinks. “Wait. What?”

“Suicide pill,” Vanessa says. When Stiles just stares at her, she says, “Some hunters keep them under the tongue during a mission, in case they get Bitten, or horribly wounded or whatever. Ariah usually didn’t, but . . . she probably decided going into this one that she’s rather die than fail. Anyway, that’s why you got sick. You must’ve ingested a little bit of the poison when you were giving her mouth-to-mouth. The tea helped flush out your system.”

“Oh,” Stiles says.

“Ariah was . . .” Vanessa lets out a breath. “We’re a family full of women who are all too damned proud to know what’s good for us,” she finally says. “And Ariah was old. She was dying and she knew it. This is how she chose to go. Stupid, if you ask me. But Ariah never did. Can you stand?”

“Yeah, I . . . I think so.” Stiles gets to his feet. His legs feel wobbly. Derek is almost immediately beside him, getting an arm around his waist. He takes several more deep breaths, staving off the panic attack for another day. Vanessa pulls out a tarp and throws it over Ariah’s body, then drives her truck into the barn.

“I’ll deal with it tomorrow,” she says. “You guys need a break.”

Stiles whole-heartedly agrees. But he can’t help but laugh when he sees that Vanessa drives not a pick-up truck but an old, miniature school bus. “Nice,” he says.

“Gotta get around with large numbers, only a few ways to do it,” she says, and they load up. “Gonna drive you down to my cousin’s place in Green River. It’s getting late. I’ve arranged for someone to come pick you up tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He’s so exhausted that he doesn’t even care who. It’s all he can do to stay awake for the three hour drive. The place where they end up looks like a real old West ranch, all warm wood and decorated in dead animals. Stiles doesn’t care. Vanessa says she’ll get them some food, but he’s asleep before it arrives, curled up in Derek’s embrace.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, what you've all been waiting for! I think.

 

Stiles wakes up at least three times with nightmares, dreams where he’s dying, convulsing with coughs, where his chest is coming apart. The last time, he can see dim light coming around the curtains, pre-dawn light. He’d love to get up and bake, but this isn’t his house. He tosses and turns until Vanessa knocks on the door of the room she’s given them and says, “Breakfast if you want it. Your ride will be here in about forty minutes.”

Everyone manages to stagger out of bed. From the looks of the crowd, nobody slept much better than he did. But they’re all eager enough for food. Vanessa has cooked them a real cowboy breakfast, with steak, potatoes, and eggs full of red peppers and onions.

Stiles cuts into his steak and sees the juice come oozing out. His stomach rises into his throat and he has to close his eyes for a minute or risk throwing up all over his plate. He can see blood trickling out of Ian’s mouth, his own face, taste it while giving Ariah CPR.

Derek’s hand comes up and rubs slow circles on his back, his thumb brushing the short hairs at the back of Stiles’ neck. After a minute, his stomach settles and he starts to eat the eggs and potatoes. But he deposits his piece of steak on Derek’s plate when nobody is looking. Derek eats it without commentary.

He’s about halfway through his plate when there’s a brisk knock on the front door of the house. “C’min!” Vanessa shouts, and a minute later, Mikael Aronsson strides into the room. He’s wearing his usual black overcoat and fatigue pants, but no sunglasses. His face is drawn and weary, with more lines than Stiles remembers seeing last time, and it looks like he’s lost some weight. Stiles knows well what injury and rehab do to a person.

“Hey, Aronsson,” Vanessa says. “Like a plate? Serve yourself.”

“Sure.” Mikael grabs a plate and starts dishing himself up some food, sitting down next to Vanessa.

Stiles blinks at Mikael, feeling a little slow and stupid. “Are you our ride?” he asks.

Mikael nods. “I know you’re probably not eager to get on a plane again, but we really thought it’d be better to get you home sooner rather than later. I promise nobody’s sabotaged mine, and I’ve got someone keeping an eye on it at the airstrip while we eat. I’ll fly you myself.”

“Ugh,” Stiles says, but he _does_ want to get home, so he nods. “Okay. Thanks. I feel super out of the loop.”

“So do we,” Mikael says. “All Victoria told us was that someone had attacked Beacon Hills with magic, then crashed your plane.”

Stiles pushes his hand through his hair. “It’s kind of a long story,” he says, but after a moment decides to tell them everything. He has to trust somebody, and to be honest he’d be glad to dump the whole mess into someone else’s lap. So he tells them about Phil’s arrival and then the murders and how Chris Argent tried to kill him because he had been bewitched.

“Jesus,” Mikael mutters.

He tells them about how all of this is part of some larger problem, of the way he’s been targeted, of how Eli Whitaker and Ruben Gutierrez fit in. He tells them about how the Stoddard family is the one thing that seems to tie all these events together. The only thing he skims over is Ian’s involvement, and he does that more out of respect for Ian than because he thinks it would be a problem. Ian spent enough time in a hunter prison. He doesn’t need other people knowing about his strengths and weaknesses. So although Stiles includes him, he doesn’t give a lot of detail.

“What a clusterfuck,” Vanessa says, when Stiles has told the whole tale. “And Ariah tops it off by killing herself, of course she does.”

Stiles swallows. “Was she really . . . dying?”

Vanessa shrugs. “Had she been given a terminal diagnosis? No. But she was old. Her health was failing in a variety of ways. Even if she had lived, her hunting days were over, and she knew it. Back when she could have retired into the prestigious position of the Elders, she would have accepted that. But now . . . I think she was afraid that she’d retire and everybody would forget all about her. So she decided to go out in a blaze of glory. She wanted you to get blamed for her death. Fan the flames, as it were. Unfortunately, my sister forgot that I hate her melodramatic bullshit. As far as I’m concerned, Ariah died of old age. End of story.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “Thanks. And I’m sorry. I’m not sure what else I can say.”

Vanessa shakes her head. “You know she’s the one who tried to have Mikael killed, right?”

Several people choke on their breakfast, including Mikael. But the pieces fall into place for Stiles easily. “Right. The guy had a suicide pill, the same way Ariah did. I should have figured he was one of your guys. Or Ariah’s guys.”

“What did I do to her?” Mikael asks, looking bewildered.

“You dissolved the Council of Elders,” Stiles says, and Vanessa is nodding. “Ariah’s dream was to retire and become one of them. But because of what happened at the Conclave, that never happened. And you and Chris Argent were primarily responsible for the way things actually played out in the long run. She tried to have you killed, it didn’t work out, and then she was working with Henry Argent to fuck Chris over.”

Mikael mutters a curse in a language that Stiles doesn’t know, and rubs an uneasy hand over his chest. “I guess that’s good to finally know.”

Vanessa rolls her eyes. “Finish your breakfast.”

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles starts to eat again, deep in thought. Something is nagging at him. Stella Jones had said that they were way off base when it came to the attempted assassination. That implied it had nothing to do with hunter politics at all. Were they wrong? Or had Stella just been baiting them, or trying to steer them off track?

After a minute, he decides that it’s nothing he’s going to solve right now, and focuses on the more immediate problems. “So there are two things I want to know right now. Firstly, did Julien still go to Peoria, and if so, did he get anything useful out of Henry and Rose. Secondly, can we account for Jim Stoddard’s whereabouts at the time that the plane was sabotaged.”

“He’d know how to do it,” Vanessa says. “He’s not a pilot, but every hunter knows some mechanics.”

“Should be easy enough to find out,” Mikael says. “I’ll do that, if you want to call the Argents and find out what happened with their cousin.”

Stiles nods and borrows Vanessa’s phone. He checks in with his dad and lets him know that Mikael is going to be flying them home, and doesn’t mention any of what happened with Ariah. Not because he wants to hide it from his father, but more because he’s afraid that if he talks about it, he’ll freak out.

“As it happens,” his father says when he asks about Julien, “he wasn’t able to talk to Rose and Henry. They were gone. Must’ve made a run for it when things went south.”

Stiles chews on this. “Without Phil?” he says. “I get that their idea of parenting was radically different from yours, but I don’t think they would have left him behind.”

“I don’t know, kiddo,” Tom says. “All I know is that they were gone. No sign of foul play, no sign of anything, really. He’s still in Peoria, in case they turn up, but so far they haven’t.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. He’s thinking of Eli Whitaker, killed by a sniper before he could answer any questions about who had been behind his plot. Wherever Henry and Rose Argent are, he’s guessing that they aren’t still breathing. He’ll have to deal with that later. “Okay. I’ll see you this evening. Love you bye,” he adds, as always, and his father returns the parting words before he hangs up.

“Rose and Henry Argent have disappeared without a trace,” he says to the gathered company.

Vanessa looks up from the cup of tea she’s pouring herself. “Probably dead then, huh?”

“That’d be my wager,” Stiles says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Mikael is off the phone a few minutes later. “Jim Stoddard has been busy at his day job the last week,” he says. “Like Chris, he does private contracting, weapons, security, that sort of thing. He’s been helping oversee a weapons shipment since Tuesday. Not even in the country.”

“Damn,” Stiles says. “I was _so sure_ it was him. He’s the only thing that links all the pieces together.”

“Just because it isn’t Jim Stoddard doesn’t mean it isn’t a Stoddard at all,” Vanessa says. “What about his brother?”

“Ned was on the same job,” Mikael says. “He has a sister, but she doesn’t do any of the hunting stuff. They’ve got a batch of kids, but I don’t think any of them are old enough to have pulled this off.”

Stiles sighs. “Back to square one,” he says. He’ll deal with it later. He’s just not up to it right now. He wants to get back to the den, back to the crime wall where he’s assembled all the evidence, all the connections. He won’t come up with anything until then. And he has help now. Vanessa can try to figure out who might have had access to their facility.

They finish eating and pile into Vanessa’s bus, then follow Mikael, who had apparently brought his motorcycle with him on the plane so he could then drive to Vanessa’s house. “That is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Vanessa remarks, as he puts on his helmet and drives off. “Man, if I were twenty years younger . . .”

Erica giggles. “I hear ya, sister,” she says. “I’d totally hit that.”

“Same,” Danny says wistfully.

Stiles shakes his head at them, but he’s amused by their antics, glad to see them returning to normal. They drive to the airstrip, where Vanessa tells them to give Victoria and Allison her love. “I’m driving up to the prison,” she says. “I’ll sniff around, see what I can find out. If I can find your stuff, I’ll ship it to you.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “I’d hate to lose that laptop. I mean, if for no other reason, there’s a half written criminology paper on it that was actually due yesterday, so, you know. Be nice to have it back.”

“Yeah, I’ll break some kneecaps if I have to,” Vanessa says, before getting back in her bus and driving away.

Stiles is frowning after her, and he doesn’t realize that Mikael is at his elbow. “Don’t worry about her,” the hunter says. “She can take care of herself. She was hunting before you were in diapers. Now come on, let’s get moving.”

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles boards the plane and is surprised to see a scowling blonde his own age sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. “Oh, hi, uh . . . Annika, right?”

“Yeah,” she says, tucking a strand of her pale blonde hair behind her ear.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Stiles says.

Annika doesn’t look at him. “Dad left me to watch the plane while he was picking you up.” To her father, she adds mulishly, “What took so long?”

“I was having breakfast with Vanessa,” Mikael says, but Stiles notices that he gives her shoulder a little squeeze as he settles in the pilot’s seat. He can see the tension in her shoulders and realizes that it’s not anger, it’s fear. That’s why she’s here. Stiles can understand that. Less than a month previous, she had watched her father get shot right in front of her. It stood to reason that she might have some trouble dealing with that.

“Your brother didn’t come along?” Stiles asks, settling in one of the plane’s seats as Mikael starts going through the pre-flight checklist.

“No.” Annika scowls. “He’s always busy with his girlfriend these days.”

Stiles is happy to hear that Jonas is busy with things other than killing werewolves, but decides not to say anything in front of his family. He’s less happy to hear that Jonas might reproduce someday, but he supposes that he can’t win them all.

“Strap in,” Mikael says. “We’ll be taking off in a few minutes.”

All of them white knuckle their seats for the first part of the flight, but when Mikael doesn’t seize and die and their plane remains intact, they start to relax. Stiles keeps almost dozing off but then jerking himself back to consciousness. Derek gives him a worried look once or twice, but Stiles says, “I’m okay, I just . . . the sooner we get home, the happier I’ll be.”

Unsurprisingly, there’s a huge crowd gathered at the Beacon Hills airport, and Stiles just throws himself at everyone. Not only is the whole pack there, of course, but all their families. The only ones who are missing are the Argents; Allison is the only one there from her family. Stiles manages to hug at least three people at once, and somehow exchanges pack greetings with those who stayed behind without ever leaving his father’s comforting embrace.

“You don’t look too good,” Tom says, once the furor has died down.

“Just tired,” Stiles says, dredging up a wan smile. “I’ll feel better once I’ve gotten some sleep. And once I know whether or not I have to rewrite that criminology paper.”

Everyone laughs. Tom says, “Come on, I’ll drive you guys home, we can order some pizza and you can get some sleep.” He extends his hand to Mikael and says, “Thanks for giving them a lift. We owe you one.”

Mikael gives a slight nod and says, “No problem,” while Annika hangs around at his shoulder, glowering at everyone. “I think we’re going to stay for a couple days. I want to make sure everything is okay. I’m going to go check in with Chris and Victoria.”

“Can I give you a lift?” Tom asks.

“No need, we brought our own transportation,” Mikael says. “I’ll see you later, Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his hand, and then leans heavily against his father and says, “Can we go back to the house instead of the den? I just . . .” He’s not sure how to articulate what he means. The den is the safer place, logistically speaking, but home, his father’s house, has a sort of emotional safety that’s hard to duplicate.

Tom hugs him hard and says, “Kid, I would take you to Chuck E. Cheese if that’s where you wanted to go.”

“Oh, man, really?” Stiles manages a grin. “You hate Chuck E. Cheese.”

“As does every sane parent in the galaxy,” Tom says. “But, uh, not to be a downer but there’s still some holes in your living room. I put up a few tarps but nobody’s done any repairs yet.”

“Oh. Right.”

Scott leans over and hooks an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “I’ll ride with you, bro.”

“Well, on that extremely sentimental note,” Ian says, “I think I’m going to head back to Africa, where the hunters are a little less psychotic. It’s been fun, Stiles. You are going to return my e-mails now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, if I ever get my computer back,” Stiles says, and lets out a breath. “Thanks. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“Oh, I know,” Ian says cheerfully. “Don’t worry. I’ll call it in someday,” he adds, and Stiles groans, but before he can retort, the creature wearing his face vanishes with a ‘pop’.

There’s a few minutes of general debate. The other pack members who were on the plane decide to run back to their own houses first so they can shower and get clean clothes and reassure their parents, who are all a little clingy. Derek will stick with Stiles, of course; he has plenty of clothes at the Stilinski house.

Chris and Victoria are still staying at Deaton’s, and in all the chaos Stiles has almost forgotten about Jake and Phil. He’s a little surprised when they greet him. “Hey, guys,” he says, giving Jake a hug and tugging on his ponytail. “Dibs on the shower. Then I’ll give you the full story.”

“Okay,” Jake says.

Stiles heads up the stairs, grabs a set of clothes, and ducks into the bathroom. He’s not really thinking about it. It’s a shower. He takes them every day. But he’s forgotten how bad the claustrophobia always becomes when he’s stressed. He’s barely started to shampoo when he feels the panic attack brewing, shortening his breath. He closes his eyes and repeats some of the calming mantras that Gwen has taught him, scrubbing himself off as quickly as possible.

It’s a mistake, and he knows it. The smart thing to do would be to leave the bathroom as quickly as possible, hair dripping shampoo be damned. By the time he finally gets clean, he’s hyperventilating and dizzy. He shuts the water off and busts out of the bathroom dripping wet, carrying a towel but not even trying to dry off. He winds up sitting on the floor of his bedroom, gasping for air.

“Hey, easy, easy,” his father’s voice says, and Stiles clutches at him, crawling into his father’s arms without a thought for how soaking wet he still is. Tom holds him and rocks him back and forth. “Easy now. I’ve got you. You’re safe now, I’ve got you.”

Gradually, Stiles’ breathing steadies out. “Okay,” he rasps, pulling away and shoving his hair out of his face with trembling hands. “Okay, I’m okay.”

Tom lets him go. He stands up and starts to dry himself off, shivering. He throws on some clothes and then sinks down onto the edge of his bed, feeling weak-kneed and light-headed.

“The big, bad boy in red,” he says to the floor. “If only people knew.”

Tom sits down beside him and helps him pull one of his plaid over shirts on. “You’ve gotta stop giving your old man heart attacks, kiddo,” he says.

“What I wouldn’t give,” Stiles says flatly. “We’re no closer to finding Moriarty. Henry and Rose Argent have vanished and there’s a good chance they’re dead, so we’ve lost our only lead. That means we don’t know who the sorcerer is and we can’t protect Chris from further attacks. The only thing I accomplished on that trip was getting someone killed that I wasn’t even trying to get killed.”

“I haven’t heard that part of the story,” Tom says.

Stiles tells him about Ariah picking them up from the hospital and trying to kill them, about Ian stopping her, and the internal debate he had about killing her. Then he tells him about what happened in the truck. “And I just . . . I don’t know what to think about _any_ of this. Was I wrong? Am I weak, like Peter thinks? Was it the right but stupid thing to do?”

Tom’s quiet. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “I can’t say that I don’t see why you were tempted. Though I think I know why you felt like things were different from what happened with Ruben Gutierrez.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks.

“Ruben hurt Derek,” Tom says. “The rest of your pack, too, but . . . you do have a tendency to react more violently when Derek’s welfare is on the line. Which I think is natural, and understandable. Ariah threatened all of you, but she didn’t actually manage to hurt any of your pack.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right about that,” Stiles says. “I wish I could just . . . walk away. Isn’t that fucking stupid? I _started_ this God damned war. I wish I could go back and undo that.”

“Stiles, you _didn’t_ start this,” Tom says firmly. “The hunter community was going to wind up in turmoil one way or another. I’ll admit you might have sped things up, but . . . as long as there were hunters like Kate Argent out there, who were willing to kill entire innocent families, and hunters like Chris . . . I think it was always going to wind up like this. I think you just helped some people find their way to the right side. That’s all.”

Stiles swallows hard and says, “Maybe. Thanks, Dad.”

“And I know that this seems like it was a disaster, and believe me, I’m _not_ happy that we haven’t caught the sorcerer and Chris is still in danger,” Tom says, “but in terms of the war, we scored a major victory. If Vanessa takes control of the Nazario family, that’s an important ally. And if Henry and Rose are out of the picture, one way or another, maybe whoever takes control of their territory can be an ally, too.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, brightening. “Yeah, I guess so.” He frowns a little. “I wonder whose side Moriarty is on. It’s like . . . she uses the war, but I don’t know that she actually cares who wins. It’s just like a backdrop for the games that she wants to play. Maybe she’s not a hunter at all.”

“Maybe not,” Tom agrees. “Look, we’ve got leads to follow. We’ll figure it out. And until then, you take this.” He unpins the sheriff’s star from his shirt and fixes it to Stiles’ T-shirt, right over his heart. “Hang onto this, and when you’re trying to make hard decisions, this might help you remember who you want to be.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says. He manages a wan smile. “I think you’re supposed to keep this, though.”

“Eh, I’ll get a new one,” Tom says. “Come on. How about we go get you some food?”

“Okay.” Stiles climbs shakily to his feet and lets his father give him one last hug before pulling him down the stairs.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles spends most of the day on the sofa, surrounded by his pack, which is exactly where he wants to be. He makes some notes of his thoughts, organizing them for when he’s going to need them, and calls to check in on Chris and Victoria. It’s a brief conversation. Chris doesn’t want to talk to him, and Victoria confirms that his mood is still fairly volatile. “It’s not that he thinks you’re an enemy,” she says, “but I think it’s going to be a while before he’s willing to face you.”

Stiles can read the underlying admission of shame and guilt well enough, and decides to let it go. He can’t imagine how Chris feels, knowing that he killed innocents and attacked his friends, even under the influence of magic. There’s nothing he can say that Victoria hasn’t already undoubtedly said, so he just plans to make some cookies that Chris likes and send them over.

It doesn’t help that Chris knows full well why he’s being kept at Deaton’s clinic, and nobody’s happy about the fact that they don’t have a better solution. Deaton apparently has a spell that can help, which he calls a ‘dissociation’ spell. “Basically,” he says to Stiles over the phone, “it involves divorcing him from the object that was taken. Luckily it wasn’t blood. Hair is much easier. But we have to destroy the connection it would have back to him, which basically means that as a side effect, all the hair on the body falls out.”

“Oh, geez,” Stiles says. He tries to picture Chris bald and clean-shaven. It’s not so bad. Then he remembers that Phil took one of Victoria’s hairs as well, and nearly dissolves into hysterical laughter. “So, are you going to do that?”

“Well, I’ve talked to them about it, and they’re willing,” Deaton says, “but Victoria would prefer if we make absolutely certain that we can’t locate the sorcerer first.”

“I bet,” Stiles says.

They’re not quite out of leads to follow. They’re still waiting to hear back from Vanessa Nazario. Julien has called and said that he’s reported his missing cousin to the police, and that it’s now out of his hands. There’s no sign of foul play, no sign of anything. Their car is still in the garage; there’s no sign of hastily packed belongings. It’s as if they walked away from their house and vanished.

“Which would be easy enough to accomplish when you’re working with a God damned sorcerer,” Stiles says, when his father gives him the details. He looks uneasily towards the back yard, where Jake and Phil are playing catch. “Have you told them?”

Tom’s jaw sets unhappily. “I told them that their parents weren’t at the house,” he says. “Jake, I think, came to the correct conclusions. Phil . . . I’m not sure. I think he’s convinced that they abandoned him because he failed at his job.” He pushes a hand through his hair and says, “I don’t know what we should tell him. It’s possible he’s right.”

Stiles agrees. Until they know one way or another, he’ll let both of the brothers make their own assumptions.

He’s still on the sofa, watching Buffy reruns, when Allison’s phone rings. She glances at the screen and then picks it up and puts it on speaker. “Hey, Aunt Vanessa. I’ve got you on speaker.”

“Hey,” Vanessa says. “Stiles there?” she asks, and Stiles confirms that he is. “Well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

“Give me the good news first and keep the bad news to yourself,” Stiles says.

Vanessa gives a snort. “Well, the good news is that you won’t have to rewrite that paper of yours. All your stuff was still there. I’m packing it up and I’ll mail it to you tomorrow.”

“Oh, thank God,” Stiles says. His hands have been itching for his phone. “Okay. I can handle it. What’s the bad news?”

“The bad news is that there is no other news,” Vanessa says. “I’m no CSI genius, but that place is empty and scrubbed down. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Surveillance cameras have had all their data erased.”

“Shit,” Stiles says. “Send me those too, if you would. I’ve got some tech people here who can try to work some magic on them.”

“’Kay,” Vanessa says. “Sorry it’s not more useful. I’ll keep asking some questions, but without Ariah’s help, I don’t even know who was working here or who might’ve helped.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. Vanessa says goodbye to Allison, and she hangs up.

They both sit in pensive silence before Allison says, “I guess I’ll call my mom and let her know. Then she can decide whether or not she wants to let Deaton do that spell so they can go home.” She stands up and leaves the room.

“So . . . that’s it, then?” Jake asks uncertainly, worrying at the hem of his shirt. “We just have to . . . put it behind us like it didn’t happen?”

“It feels anticlimactic, I agree,” Stiles says, “but yeah. At least for the time being. We might figure out who was behind it at some point, but that’s not going to be any time soon. All we can do is keep asking questions, and hopefully we’ll get it all put together at some point.”

Phil looks up and asks, awkwardly, “What about my mom and dad?”

“I don’t know, Phil,” Stiles says. “I’d love to give you an easy answer, but I don’t have one. We used your phone to send them some texts, but they didn’t reply. All we can do is wait. Julien’s going to come pick you up tomorrow, and he’ll take good care of you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Phil says, looking miserable.

Jake looks up and fiddles more with his shirt. “Stiles? Can I talk to you in private?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, thinking that he knows what Jake is going to say. He waves him up and they go up the stairs, into Stiles’ old bedroom, which is where Jake and Phil have been sleeping. “What’s on your mind?”

Jake swallows hard but then squares his shoulders and says, “I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me the past couple years. And I would love to be a part of your pack. But I can’t be right now. I have to go with Phil. He’s my brother. I have to make sure that he’s okay.”

“Of course you do.” Stiles reaches out and squeezes Jake’s shoulder. “There’s always a place for you here, Jake. But I understand. Take care of your brother.”

“Thanks,” Jake says, obviously relieved. “I guess I should talk to Chris and Victoria. Maybe it’ll be easier for them, for Chris, if I’m not around.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says. “But Chris is going to get better, Jake. We’ll make sure of it.”

Jake nods, and the two of them head back downstairs. Stiles winds up falling asleep in a pile of wolves in the middle of the living room, before the next episode is over. The others let him sleep, even after evening drifts into night. They rarely wake him once he’s finally fallen asleep, not even to relocate him. And now it would be especially pointless. Jake and Phil are using his room, so unless they wanted to drive him back to the den, there’s really nowhere to take him.

When he wakes up again, it’s the middle of the night. He rolls over and rubs his cheek against Derek’s fur, hoping that he’ll fall back asleep. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t. He lies there and thinks about everything that’s happened, about how they’ve lost their only leads and he really has no idea what’s going to happen. He hates this. He hates playing defense; he always has.

Their mysterious antagonist had struck at him before, but always through intermediaries. This is the first time that it seems like she’s actually gotten involved herself. It feels like there must be some clue, somewhere, that she’s left him. Even if she didn’t do it on purpose. But no matter how much he wracks his brain, he can’t think of anything. They’ve learned only one thing, and it’s tenuous at best: that their adversary is a woman. That’s assuming that the woman they almost met at the facility in Wyoming was indeed their Moriarty. But he thinks it is. It feels right. She had worked with Ariah Nazario and Henry Argent to trap him, and it had worked. And now they were both dead.

“You know one other thing,” Peter remarks, appearing on the sofa as if Stiles had summoned him. “She’s a psychopath.”

“That wasn’t hard to figure out,” Stiles replies.

“No, but true psychopaths are rare,” Peter says.

“Not as rare as you might believe in _this_ fucking line of work,” Stiles says. “Kate Argent. Sebastian Stone. Kali Steele. Hell, even Matt Daehler. Seems I keep running into the motherfuckers wherever I go.”

“Fair,” Peter says, “but I think it tells you something about her motivations. We’ve been operating under the assumption that she’s been striking against you because she, as a hunter, wants you dead. But that may not be the case. You’ve theorized that she’s playing games with you, with the ultimate end goal being to kill you and destroy your pack. I’d like to propose an alternate theory: she’s experimenting on you. Putting you in adverse situations to see how you respond.  You do have a knack for choosing the unlikely path. Perhaps it’s that, which draws her attention.”

“That doesn’t actually help me very much,” Stiles says, with a sigh.

“True.” Peter is quiet, pensive. “But perhaps we’ve neglected to ask a major question. Why did the game start? Obviously, you drew her attention. But how? Why? She’s got ties to the hunter community – that’s made obvious by her manipulation of the hunters – but I don’t think she’s acting for their benefits. She might not be a hunter. Whoever was behind this either was a sorcerer, or had a powerful sorcerer as an ally. Who? Thanks to Deaton, most of the sorcerers in this hemisphere are in hand. So where did this one come from? Perhaps she’s been flying under the radar the whole time.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says, “but if she heard about me through the supernatural rumor train, that tells us basically _nothing_.”

“Mm. I’ll continue to ponder it.”

Stiles sighs again and heaves himself out of the pile of wolves. He needs to get up for a while, needs to move, do something constructive. The mixer will wake the others if he uses it, but if he made something with a thinner batter, like pancakes, he could just use a whisk.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t make pancakes very often, and he’s too tired to remember for sure what the recipe is. He goes to grab his phone out of his pocket and remembers that it’s still in Wyoming. He considers making something else, but he really doesn’t want to risk waking the others, so he trudges up the stairs. He’s got a hard copy of some of his older recipes in a binder; fragile sheets of paper with his mother’s handwriting on them. He’s sure he can get in and out of his bedroom without waking Phil and Jake.

When he gets to his room, he eases the door open, then stands there for a few moments to let his eyes adjust to the dim light coming in around the blinds. It happens faster than he would have expected. He realizes that the blinds are up, and wonders if Phil likes to sleep with them open. But then he realizes the window is open, too. As he stands there and watches, a slim figure eases inside.

She doesn’t seem to notice him; her gaze is focused on the two boys asleep in the bed, and then she lifts a gun.

Stiles doesn’t stop to think. He grabs the nearest object, which happens to be a book sitting on his desk, and chucks it at her. Then he flips the light switch as she spins around and dodges away from it. He realizes then how stupid that was, because he’s unarmed, unarmored, basically a sitting duck, and she’s a psychopath with a gun.

She’s not very tall, maybe a few inches over five feet, with dark blond hair that’s pulled back into a tight braid and a smattering of freckles across an unremarkable face. She’s wearing dark gray leggings and a form fitting top of the same color, and he knows her. Her name is Sally Stoddard. He met her at the Conclave, over two years before. She was a vain, whiny, snobby girl that he had barely remembered after the Conclave ended. He had never even thought of her when he had been considering suspects, even knowing that their Moriarty was connected to the Stoddard family.

And now she’s standing there in his bedroom, which he had just happened to walk into by chance because he wanted to make pancakes at three AM. What were the odds of that? Stiles just stares at her and randomly thinks of Peter, saying that luck was its own kind of skill.

Sally recovers first, swinging around and pointing the gun at him, just as Jake and Phil are waking up and Jake sleepily asks, “What is it?”

Stiles is so startled that all he thinks to do is hold his hands up in surrender and blurt out, “Wait!”

Sally gives him an utterly blank look, and asks, “Why?”

Then she pulls the trigger.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I think this chapter should answer most if not all of your questions, my lovelies. Enjoy!

 

Stiles feels the impact of the bullet and it knocks him onto his back, in the hallway. There’s surprisingly little pain. He gasps for breath and waits to die, but it doesn’t happen. There’s another gunshot in the room, and he wonders if Jake or Phil is dead, too, and then Derek leaps over him with a roar.

Moments later, Stiles’ father has him gathered in his arms. “Are you okay, are you hurt?” he demands, and Stiles wonders why he can’t tell. There must be blood everywhere; all the wolves should be able to smell it, it should be spattered all over the wall behind him. But he’s starting to realize that despite all appearances, he isn’t bleeding. He’s still not even in that much pain; there’s a throbbing ache in his chest but it’s nowhere near as bad as when Matt shot him.

He raises his shaking hands to his chest and feels around. His hand closes on the metal sheriff’s badge that his father had pinned to his shirt earlier that day. He takes it off and looks at the bullet that’s embedded in it. It had punched nearly all the way through.

Hysteria seizes him, sudden and violent. He’s not collected enough to care about anything that’s happening. He sucks in a breath and starts to scream, pressing both hands over his face and rocking back and forth.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Tom says, clutching at him, trying to keep him from flailing around too much. “You’re okay, you’re safe, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

Gradually, the screams turn to sobs. Stiles feels another warm presence at his back. Derek is holding him, too, sandwiching him between the two of them. The pack has gathered around, he can hear them talking in low voices, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. The worst of it passes. Stiles gives a few hitching gasps and then goes silent.

“Sorry,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “Sorry. Needed to get that out of my system, I guess.”

“It’s okay,” Tom says, and helps him sit up, lean against Derek. “What – what the hell happened, Stiles?”

“Jake!” Stiles says, suddenly remembering Sally pointing her gun at the sleeping boys. His head whips around as he looks for him.

“I’m okay, we’re fine!” Jake hastily says. He kneels beside Stiles, his curls falling into his face. “When I saw the gun, I grabbed Phil and rolled us both off the back side of the bed. Then Derek came in, and I guess she decided she’d better make a run for it.”

“Did – did you follow her?” Stiles asks, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

“No,” Derek says. “I tried, but she jumped out the window and just – she was just fucking gone. So I guess she must have been a sorcerer, huh.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He tries to wrap his mind around the idea of a girl he had nicknamed Veruca Salt being a sorcerer. “Did you see her?”

“Only briefly,” Derek says. “Why, did you recognize her?”

“I did,” Jake says, and his voice is shaking, too. “It was Sally, right? Sally Stoddard. We met her at the Conclave.”

“Who?” several people chorus.

“Jim Stoddard’s niece,” Allison says. She’s frowning. “Jesus, Jake, are you _sure_? She doesn’t really seem the type . . .”

“What better cover for a homicidal psychopath than a flighty, whiny ditz?” Stiles asks. “Hell, even Lydia’s used that cover. Not for being psychotic. Never mind. I should stop talking.”

“We understood what you meant,” Lydia says, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

“What should we do?” Scott asks, looking between Stiles and Allison.

“Right now, nothing,” Sheriff Stilinski says firmly. “I need to take Stiles to the hospital. No buts!” he says, seeing the way Stiles’ mouth is open to protest. “Just because the bullet didn’t penetrate doesn’t mean that you don’t have injuries. Remember Mikael’s broken ribs and internal bleeding? And he was wearing a vest.” He holds up the badge and gives it a quick onceover. “Now, Mikael got shot with a .45 and this is only a 9 mil, so you probably got off light, all things considered, but we _are_ taking you to the hospital to make sure.”

Stiles sighs. “Okay, Dad,” he says, nestling back into his father’s embrace. “Derek, Erica, you’re with me. Allison, why don’t you put a mountain ash circle around the house, in case she gets any ideas about striking from a distance. You guys set up a watch and then go back to bed.”

“Only if you wake us when you get home,” Scott says firmly, and Stiles agrees.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

X-rays and a quick exam show that Stiles has two cracked ribs, but otherwise he’s surprisingly undamaged. There’s no internal bleeding. They tell him to take it easy and not do any heavy lifting for a few days, then give him a prescription for painkillers. Nobody mentions a police report. Sheriff Stilinski tells the ER doctor that they were fooling around with a prop gun that fires rubber bullets. It’s a fair bet that absolutely nobody believes this, but it’s Beacon Hills, so nobody argues.

They get back home at about dawn. Tom goes to bed. Stiles doesn’t even try. Sleep is a laughable idea; he doesn’t want to think about the nightmares that he would have. Instead, he sits down with all his notes and fits Sally Stoddard into place. It’s amazing how well it works. She had access to everything the Stoddard family had, she had met him at the Conclave and witnessed him taking the Elders down a notch. As a woman only a few years younger than Liliana Santos, she’s a much more likely confidante for her than Jim Stoddard. He hates himself for never even considering her as a suspect.

So he bakes, and he thinks, and a few of the pack sit in the kitchen with him despite the time. Derek takes his wolf form and curls up right by Stiles’ feet, so close that Stiles can feel the warmth of his body. The others rotate, taking their turns on watches and turns at keeping Stiles company until mid-morning. They don’t really talk. Nobody seems to be in the mood for that.

By around ten AM, everyone is awake. Stiles roots around in the refrigerator and makes eggs a la leftovers for everybody to go with the muffins he’s made. It’s an interesting chore, because there aren’t many leftovers to choose from, since he hasn’t been home. There’s some frozen broccoli and spinach, though, and enough cheese to make the combination palatable. Some boxes of sausage in the freezer round out the meal.

“So . . . what are we going to do?” Scott finally asks again, as everyone is cleaning their plates.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face. “I’m not sure. I mean, my primary instinct is to send her a fucking mail bomb, but that probably breaks a law or something.”

“Several,” Lydia says, spearing a piece of broccoli. “Mail fraud being the primary.”

That gets a little giggle from the crowd. “Seriously, though,” Isaac says, casting a nervous glance at Sheriff Stilinski. “She _has_ tried to kill us all. On multiple occasions, even.”

Stiles nods. “I mean, we can’t with one hundred percent certainty place _everything_ at her door. But yeah, trust me, I’m well aware of that.” He rubs his thumb over the sheriff’s star that he’s tucked into his pants pocket. “No, if we get a clear shot at her, we’ll take it. But short of flying to Massachusetts, which I doubt any of us want to do, I don’t see how that would happen. I doubt she’ll stick around.”

Phil speaks up quietly. “Is she gonna try to kill me again?”

“Probably not,” Stiles says. He glances at his father and then Allison, and says, “The only reason I can think that she would have come here last night would be because she was trying to cover her tracks. She has a habit of . . . removing people who know the truth about her. I guess she probably came for Phil because she thought his parents might have told him.”

“But then he might have told us,” Jake says anxiously, squeezing his brother’s hand.

“No, because if he had, we would have told everyone and gotten her arrested or whatever the hunter equivalent is,” Tom says, shaking his head and cutting into his eggs with a fork. To Stiles, he says, “I assume your point is that, now that her identity is out, she won’t bother?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I doubt it, at least.”

“How do we know she was after Phil at all?” Allison asks. “She came in the window to _your_ room.”

“Because he isn’t pack,” Stiles says. “If she knows anything at all about werewolves, she would have known the pack would sleep downstairs. There just wouldn’t be room for everyone in a bedroom. A quick peek through any of the downstairs windows would have confirmed that. But hey, at least one good thing has come of this. We know she doesn’t have any of Phil’s hair. She would have used magic on him rather than risk a physical attack, if she had.”

Jake brightens up at this. “That’s good!”

“So back to the question of ‘what the hell do we do about her ongoing quest to torture us’,” Scott says.

Boyd clears his throat. “Look, I don’t want to be the guy who says ‘how about we tattle on her’, but dude. Why don’t we call her parents? They should probably know that their daughter is a psychopath.”

“Yeah, the problem is, I’m not sure they’d care,” Allison says. “I mean, presuming they’d even _believe_ us. But the Stoddard family is pretty staunchly anti-werewolf. They don’t believe in the Code. They might just say ‘Sally’s trying to kill werewolves, how cute!’ and buy her a new Corvette or something.”

“Franklin wasn’t a werewolf,” Danny points out.

“No, he wasn’t, and if we’re right about even a quarter of this, that can’t be the only person that Sally has killed,” Stiles says, “but we have no proof. Nothing. Zero. Sally’s clearly spent the last several years of her life convincing everyone that she’s harmless. Allison’s right. They wouldn’t have any reason to believe us. We can’t call Oblivion for the same reason. I think the fewer people who know, the safer it will be for us.”

“Are you kidding? We should tell everybody,” Erica says. “We should do another viral e-mail about this girl.”

Allison is shaking her head. “At best, he’ll look delusional. At worst, people will think we’re targeting Sally to try to undermine the Stoddard family and gain ground in the war. No, Stiles is right. It doesn’t go outside this house.”

“I think we should tell your parents,” Stiles says.

“I don’t know . . .” Allison looks uncomfortable. “Dad’s having enough trouble remembering who is and isn’t the enemy.”

“Exactly,” Stiles says. “He needs to know who the enemy is. I think . . . I think that will help him. I know it helps me. Just . . . finally putting a face and a name with this person makes me feel ten times better about everything. It gives us options we didn’t have before.”

“And,” Tom says quietly, “it will show Chris that we still trust him, even when he’s not sure if he trusts himself.”

Allison lets out a shaky breath. “Okay. You’re right.”

“Did they go home last night?” Scott asks.

“Yeah,” Allison says. “My mom texted me around ten PM, saying that Deaton was done with the spells and that they were heading home.”

Stiles feels his throat tighten a little, but manages to keep his voice even. “Maybe you should check on them.”

Allison hears the underlying fear in his words, and her face goes pale. She whips out her phone and practically stabs at the screen with her fingers. A few moments later, the tension rushes out of her body. “Hi, Mom,” she says, her voice wavering. “All quiet on the Western front? . . . no, I’m okay, I was just . . . I was worried about you. Someone came here last night and . . . we’re all fine. It was just . . . scary. I’ll be home in a bit, okay? . . . okay. I love you. Bye.”

Everyone at the table is breathing sighs of relief. Stiles has to take a moment to shove the hysteria back. If every little fear is going to have him this close to a breakdown, he’s going to need to do some major work with Gwen before he’ll be fit to go back to school. He remembers suddenly that he’s missed a week of classes because of this. He rubs his hands over his face. “Uh, Dad? Did you . . . call San Jose State?”

Tom gives him an ‘are you kidding me’ look. “Yes. You have appendicitis and had to have emergency surgery. Every college has been called and given an excuse. Family’s choice.”

“What was mine?” Isaac asks, knowing that Tom would have been the one who called East Bay for him.

“Hit by a car while riding your bike,” Tom says. “Scott, you fell off a ladder. Those are the only ones I know off the top of my head. Sorry.”

“Well, hey, if the cute girl in my criminology class asks to see my scar, at least I have multiple to choose from,” Stiles says. He’s calming down now, by increments. They’ll deal with this. They’ll deal with everything. He’ll make an appointment to see Gwen and be back at school by next week. He can make up his school work if he cooks less for a few days. Fast food won’t kill them.

When breakfast is finished, Allison says she wants to go home and see her parents. The pack slowly drifts into pairs and threesomes. Tom has to go back to work for a while. He says that Stiles can come with him if he wants, but Stiles is so tired that he really doesn’t want to. He sits down at the ancient computer in his father’s home office and starts typing up an e-mail to Gwen. If he has to explain everything that’s happened over the past week during the session, he won’t have time for any actual counseling. Instead, he can write to her about the actual events and then have some time to actually unpack the issues.

He’s about halfway through writing that when the house phone rings. He takes a moment to wonder why they even still have a landline and glances at the caller ID to see the number. It comes up as an unknown caller. It’s probably a telemarketer, and he’s had fun with telemarketers in the past, so he reaches over to grab it. “Stilinski Morgue, you kill ‘em, we chill ‘em.”

“Hello, Stiles,” a cheerful female voice says. “This is Sally Stoddard.”

Stiles practically falls out of his chair. “What? Why?” he stammers.

“I’m guessing that you’re probably thinking about your options right now,” Sally says. “I figured I would just call and tell you that it would be a terrible idea to kill me. I’ve made sure that if I die or disappear, really bad things will happen to you. Oh, and don’t bother to call my father, either. He wouldn’t believe a word of it. Would you like to go get some coffee?”

“You . . . are asking me out for coffee,” Stiles says, dumbfounded.

“Mm hm. Now that you know who I am, I figured you might have some questions for me. Think of it like a debriefing. With snacks.”

“Well, yeah, I have questions, I have approximately a thousand of them, but are you actually going to _answer_ them?”

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,” Sally says. “Come meet me at Peet’s Coffee and find out.”

She hangs up, and Stiles is left staring at the phone with his jaw slightly ajar before he gathers himself enough to go out to the living room, where Derek is sketching. Whatever it is involves a lot of fire and chaos, but hey, they all cope in their own ways. “Sally just called me,” he says. “She wants to meet for coffee.”

“She wants to _what_?” Derek asks, and Stiles relays the conversation to him. He seems just as confused as Stiles is. “Are you going to go?” Derek asks.

Stiles nods. “I can’t just not ask my questions if she’s offering to answer even one of them,” he says. “And she’s offering to meet me in a public place, so I doubt she plans to kill me. I guess I don’t see the harm in it. Unless, you know, she uses it to psychoanalyze me. Except it seems like she’s already done a pretty good job of that, so . . .”

“Well, I’m coming, too,” Derek says firmly.

Stiles manages a wan smile. “Okay,” he says. “And hey, at least I get coffee,” he adds, and Derek sighs and rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you shift and put on your vest? You can bite her if she tries anything.”

Derek scowls, but nods and tugs off his shirt. While he’s doing that, Stiles goes back into the office and spins the combination on his father’s safe, taking out his spare handgun. It’s a Glock, and he’s not as familiar with it, but it’s better than not being armed at all. He debates between his chain mail and his Kevlar for a few minutes before remembering that – damn it! – the chain mail is still in Wyoming. He puts on the Kevlar instead. A few minutes later, they’re on the road.

Sally is waiting outside the coffee shop, dressed in a sea green baby T and denim capris. She smiles and waves when she sees Stiles, like they’re old friends. “I got you a double shot latte,” she says, gesturing to the drink sitting next to her on the bench. “The barista knew you and said that was your preferred drink. I didn’t realize you would bring company. Do you want to go get a drink for Derek?”

“No,” Stiles says. “He’s fine.”

“Walk with me?” Sally asks, gesturing to the road. Stiles nods and falls into step beside her. “Are you wearing a wire?” she asks.

“I wish,” he says.

“Good, then you won’t mind if I sweep you,” she says, and pulls out a little metal rod. She runs it up and down Stiles’ body, which is very discomfiting. “Turn your phone off, please,” she adds.

“My phone is still in Wyoming, thanks to you,” he replies.

“Oh, is it? That’s a shame. I could get it back for you, if you’d like.”

“I’m fine without your help,” he says, not looking at her.

Sally regards him seriously as they continue to stroll down the street, gathering a few curious looks from passersby, who know Stiles well but don’t recognize Sally. Finally, she says, “I have to admit that I called you partly out of curiosity. How are you alive?”

The fact that Sally is starting this off by asking him a question makes him feel better. It doesn’t come off as a trap quite so much. So he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out the sheriff’s star, which still has the bullet embedded in it, and shows it to her.

Sally’s eyes go a little wide. “You have the devil’s luck, Stiles,” she says, in an admiring tone. “That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Stiles says, tucking it away. “Did you kill Henry and Rose Argent?”

Sally pulls a little grimace. “Lord, yes. They were horrible people for so, so many reasons. I’m afraid you won’t find their bodies unless you want to drag Lake Michigan, which I’m told is virtually impossible.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “And Eli Whitaker? You’re the one who killed him?”

“Mm hm,” Sally says.

“Why did you try to kill Phil?”

“Well, I was concerned that his father might have mentioned my identity to him. I wasn’t sure if he knew enough that he could actually give you any leads, but it seemed prudent to take him off the board, regardless. Also, I _have_ read the Evil Overlord list. Leaving the orphans of the people you’ve murdered behind to seek revenge, very bad form.”

Stiles gives a hysterical little laugh. “If you weren’t a complete psychopath, I could actually see myself liking you,” he says.

“Well, I see no reason we can’t be friends, but that’s probably the psychopath talking.” Sally gives him a cheerful smile. “See, Stiles, I wanted to meet you ever since I first heard of you. The mythical boy in red – by the way, are you ever going to update that? You’re hardly a boy anymore. But somehow ‘the man in red’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“I didn’t pick it,” Stiles says, “and I don’t exactly have control over it.”

“Fair enough,” Sally says. “Anyway, when Uncle Jim was talking about how the Conclave might be in Beacon Hills, I really wanted to go. But as you probably guessed, my father and my uncle aren’t aware of my nature. I’ve spent a great deal of time and effort making sure of that. They, and everyone else, believe I’m nothing more than a whiny, spoiled brat. It’s a magnificent cover, let me tell you. Even you never suspected me.”

“That’s true,” Stiles says. “I even knew it was someone in your family, but I never thought it might be you.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Sally says. “All very deliberate on my part. Anyway, I told Uncle Jim that he _had_ to get the Conclave set in California because I wanted to go to Beverly Hills, Hollywood, et cetera. The sort of thing that he ate out of my hand. And he wanted me to go to the Conclave, because I’m the oldest of my generation, and he knew most of the other families would have at least one child there.”

“So did you come to the Conclave to check me out, or what? How had you even heard of me?”

“Well,” Sally says, “it’s a little complicated. Imagine a little girl who hears voices in her head. One voice, specifically. The voice of a man who says he’s her real father, who says he understands that she’s not like other little girls. When the little girl is more interested in frying ants than playing with dolls, he encourages her, whereas the couple raising her always shoot her down. When the girls at school make fun of her, he helps her arrange . . . accidents. He helps her learn to hide her true nature, how to charm others and deflect suspicion, how to convince her parents that she’s nothing special. He tells her about the world, about the places he’s been, the people he’s killed. He teaches her magic. Little things at first, but then gradually bigger and bigger. He teaches her how to manipulate the people around her. And someday, when she’s old enough, he tells her that he’s going to come get her, and they’re going to live an amazing life making the rest of the world dance to their tune.”

“Creepy,” Stiles says flatly.

“He loved to play games,” Sally continues. “He always told me about how he loved to play games. And he told me that he had finally found a worthy opponent. Finally, after all those years of searching, someone who was clever and dangerous and willing to bend the rules, rewrite the rules if need be. He was so excited. And then suddenly . . . his voice was gone. And I didn’t know why. I had no idea. Until the rumor began to circulate that the boy in red had killed Sebastian Stone.”

Stiles feels everything between his neck and his knees turn to ice water. “You’re . . . you’re Sebastian Stone’s _daughter_?” he wheezes. Jesus, it explains so much. All those times when he thought ‘this reminds me of Stone’, that was why. The game. The messages. Come and get me. “That’s what this is about? You want revenge?”

“Oh, no!” Sally says, honestly surprised by this suggestion. “Of course not. My father played a game and he lost. You beat him fair and square. Or maybe you didn’t. I don’t know. But he never played fair, so I can hardly fault you if you didn’t either. This is just about wanting to find an opponent who was worthy of me. You _fascinate_ me, Stiles. Every time I thought I had you pinned, you wriggled free. And it was almost always with a solution that would have never occurred to me.”

Stiles has to take several deep breaths to settle himself. “How did Sebastian Stone’s daughter wind up getting raised by the Stoddard family?”

“Simple,” Sally says. “He was messing around on their territory. Jim’s mother was in charge at the time. She found out that Stone had a daughter and managed to steal me back when I was still an infant. She told my father that if he stayed off their territory, they would raise me like their own, but if he ever came back, they would kill me. So he never did. But he talked to me. He raised me as much as they did.”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters.

“I did have a good time watching you at the Conclave, Stiles. Siccing that shapeshifter on the Elders.” She giggles a little. “Hilarious. Anyway, even the people who raised me don’t know who my real father is. Uncle Jim doesn’t know. Only his mother knew, which is precisely why I killed her. She was the first person I killed. My father thought it was prudent that nobody know my true parentage, lest they start to suspect me of foul play. Now the only living person who know besides me . . . is you. Well, and your lupa, of course,” she adds, with a nod at Derek, who’s padding along beside them silently. Derek scowls and shows her his teeth.

Stiles shakes his head. “So after I killed Sebastian Stone, you decided to come to the Conclave to check me out. And I lived up to the hype. So you . . . sent Ruben after me?”

Sally nods serenely. “I tagged along with Uncle Jim on that hunt. Werewolf sorcerers! It sounded interesting, so I allowed him to ‘drag me along’. Ruben was a dick, and very, very easy to manipulate. I got him all set up with Gabriel Khan and sat back to watch how it played out. And you weaseled free. Which was impressive.”

“How much of what happened in Arizona were you responsible for?”

“Well, I knew Liliana Santos back when she lived in Massachusetts. At the Conclave, I could tell she was upset about the prisons. We kept in touch and I persuaded her to send me information on who was there. Lo and behold, a long lost Hale! So I encouraged her to start smuggling prisoners out. I didn’t expect the Gutierrezes to kill her, in case you’re curious. What a bunch of barbarians. I figured they would just imprison her along with everyone else. I suppose they thought it was too risky.”

“Did you send Deucalion after me?” Stiles asks.

“Mm hm. I sort of had to.” Sally shakes her head. “I mean, I had this brilliant setup. Cora Hale gets out of prison, goes back to Beacon Hills, demands her family’s territory. How dramatic! Except she _didn’t_. She skipped off to Mexico. I had to get her back there _somehow_. So I started spreading rumors about how Deucalion was going to go challenge the boy in red, and then started circulating rumors about how everyone thought Deucalion could never take you, and then of course as soon as he heard them . . .”

“He had to act on them or everyone would think he was a coward,” Stiles says.

Sally nods. “It’s amazing what you can get done with a well-placed rumor.”

“No shit,” Stiles says. “I don’t even have to ask about the whole thing with Eli. You knew him from when he lived in New England, so . . .”

“Exactly,” Sally says. She finishes her iced tea and sets the container down on the curb, continuing to walk.

“And this is how he knew so much about Jackson and his potential,” Stiles says. “Sebastian told you, and you told Eli.”

“See? I knew you were clever. Anything else?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Are you going to stop playing games with me? I found out who you are, so, the game’s over, right?”

Sally laughs. It’s a pleasant noise, a genuine one. “Hardly. Now’s when the game gets interesting, that’s all.”

“Uh huh.” Stiles thinks about this for several long minutes. They continue walking in silence. When the road starts to leave town and go out into the woods, he turns around and heads back the other way. He doesn’t want to be alone with her. He’s thinking about Ariah, about the taste of her blood in his mouth, about Ruben Gutierrez’s gun against his head, about Matt Daehler shouting at his father, about Sebastian Stone giggling madly as he stares at a wall. He’s thinking about Peter.

“I like your outfit,” he finally says. “It’s cute. Very flattering. Plus, I can tell you’re not wearing Kevlar.” He pulls his gun out of where he’s kept it tucked into the back of his pants, for lack of a better option.

“You’re going to shoot me,” Sally says, clearly amused by the concept. “Right here. In the street, in broad daylight.”

Stiles looks over at her, and he thinks something of his intentions must show in his face, because she stops smiling. “This is Beacon Hills, Sally. I’d shoot you in broad daylight in the police station, on camera. You’re on my territory now. We’re playing by my rules.”

Sally stops walking. “I thought I had made it clear that there would be consequences if I was killed.”

“Yes, you did,” Stiles says. “And I’ve decided I’d rather face whatever consequences you’ve got in store for me than continue to dance to your tune. What are you gonna do, Sally? Have you left something in writing that will implicate me? Bring it. I don’t care. The mundane law doesn’t scare me. Or maybe you’re going to sic the hunters on me, but to be frank, I’m not fucking scared of hunters, either. Worst comes to worst, I’ll take my pack and vanish. Maybe we’ll head up to Canada. I know a guy up there. Or I could head to China or India. I’ve got friends all over the world. Do your worst, Sally, but do it from six feet under, because I’m done playing your game.”

“You’re not a killer, Stiles,” Sally says.

“No, I’m not,” Stiles agrees. “Not unless I have to be.” He levels the gun directly at her chest and pulls the trigger, twice, in quick succession.

His aim is perfect, but it doesn’t matter. The bullets go right through her and embed in the brick wall behind her, fortunately without ricocheting. Sally looks down as her chest flickers in and out of view, the spell she’s using momentarily distorted by their passages. Then she looks back up at Stiles, surprised. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

“You clearly knew it was a possibility,” Stiles says, his jaw tightening. “You haven’t been here since the beginning.”

“A precaution I almost didn’t bother to take,” Sally says. “But at the last moment, I thought to myself about how unpredictable you are, and I decided the illusion would be a good idea.” She shakes her head a little. “Well, well, boy in red. You are everything they say you are, and a lot more besides.”

Stiles is suddenly, viciously tired. He doesn’t want to deal with this girl and her games anymore. “Get out of my town,” he says.

“With pleasure,” Sally says. Then she frowns a little and adds, “You know, I’m surprised you didn’t ask about getting Chris and Victoria’s hair back.”

Stiles just arches his eyebrows at her and says nothing.

Sally laughs and says, “Well, it’s been fun. Until next time, Stiles.”

She turns to walk away. But after only a few steps, she pauses and half-turns back. “You know what I like the sound of? The man in the red hood. What do you think?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m going to have people start calling you that. Maybe it’ll catch on.”

And with that, she’s gone.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not ready for this story to be over .... it went by so fast!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! <3

 

After a great deal of thought, Stiles asks his father and Dr. Deaton to meet him at Chris’ house. He calls Victoria to let her know, and packs up a tray of the peanut butter cookies he had made the night before (Chris’ favorite). After some debate, he asks Jake to wait about an hour before bringing Phil over. Phil wants to apologize to Chris before he leaves with Julien, who’s going to be arriving in town that evening.

Victoria lets him in, gives his cookies the laser stare, and then folds her arms over her chest. “You know, we had a deal, Stiles. I was going to stay with my husband while you found the person who had hurt him.”

Stiles looks at her for a long moment, then says, “I’m sorry, I’m just – distracted by – how did you get a wig that looks so much like your real hair?”

Victoria sighs, looks disappointed, and waves him into the kitchen. She looks pretty much like normal. Her eyebrows have been penciled in, and she’s apparently wearing false eyelashes, too. None of that surprises Stiles particularly. “I bought the wig at a local store and then had my regular hairdresser cut it in the style I wear.”

“Oooh, that makes sense,” Stiles says. He looks up as Allison jogs down the stairs, and gives her a hug in greeting. Derek leans over and rubs cheeks with her.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“Important meeting,” Stiles says. “Dad and Deaton are coming. Where’s your dad at?”

“He is downstairs, probably checking his weaponry for the tenth time today,” Victoria says. “I’ll get him.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. He sets down the tray of cookies while Allison gets out a pitcher of iced tea and starts pouring drinks for everybody.

Chris comes upstairs a minute later. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, which makes sense given the chilly autumn weather, so the lack of hair on his chest and arms isn’t noticeable. Victoria has apparently drawn in his eyebrows as well, although much more subtly than her own. He doesn’t look bad without hair, but that in combination with the new lines on his face makes it look like he’s aged ten years overnight. He also doesn’t really look at Stiles, just giving him a brief nod before picking up a glass of the tea.

Stiles isn’t having any of that. “Hey, Chris. Are you wearing fake eyelashes?”

Chris glowers at him, which is much more like it. “Eyelashes are important more than cosmetically,” he says. “They protect your eyes.”

“Well, let me be the first to say that you can definitely rock the chrome dome look,” Stiles says, and Chris gives him a withering glance.

Derek glances up as the doorbell rings, and says, “That’ll be Papa Stilinski.”

“Is the rest of the pack coming?” Chris asks, and Stiles can see his hands clenching down on the back of the chair.

“No, I wanted to keep this small, for security’s sake,” Stiles says, “and also, not to freak everybody out,” he adds. He doesn’t think anybody will be happy to hear that Sebastian Stone had a daughter.

Tom comes in, hugs his son, shakes Chris’ hand, and takes one of the cookies. Deaton arrives only a minute later.

“So, to take things chronologically,” Stiles says, “last night, someone showed up at the house to try to kill Phil, in case he knew her identity. That someone was Sally Stoddard.”

Deaton has a politely blank look on his face. Chris blinks and says, “What?”

“Yeah, that was about my reaction, too,” Stiles says. He takes a moment to sum up what had happened the night before, and how he had fit Sally in to everything that had happened. Then he says, “So this morning, while we were all trying to wrap our minds around that, she called and asked to meet me for coffee.”

Several people look at him with open mouths, but Sheriff Stilinski groans and says, “And of course, you accepted her invitation.”

“What can I say? I can’t resist a good cup of coffee,” Stiles says. “So here’s what we learned. The primary things of importance. One: Henry and Rose are definitely dead.” He looks at Chris and says, “You have my condolences. I don’t think recovering their bodies is in the cards.”

Chris grimaces and rubs a hand over his bald scalp. “Okay. I can’t say that I’m surprised. Go on.”

“I did confirm that she was the one behind the events with Ruben Gutierrez, Cora and Liliana Santos, Deucalion, and Eli Whitaker,” Stiles says.

“She just told you all of this?” Tom asks.

“Yeah. She was downright chatty. I think she was . . .” Stiles lets out a breath. “She was bragging. She wanted me to know what she had done and how good at manipulating people she was. It’s actually pretty common in serial killers, that’s why they send letters to the police and stuff. Some people theorize it’s because they subconsciously want to get caught, but most people believe it’s just because they crave recognition. They view themselves as geniuses, and they want confirmation from other people.”

Tom manages a smile at this and says, “Well, at least you’re learning stuff in college.”

“Heh, yeah,” Stiles says. “Anyway, the important part. Sally is a sorcerer. She likes to play games. She’s a total psychopath. Does that sound like anyone else we know?”

Deaton goes tense, but nobody else seems to make the connection, so after a brief silence, the veterinarian says, “What are you implying, Stiles?”

“Sally is Sebastian Stone’s daughter,” Stiles says, and Deaton closes his eyes for a few moments. “Taken from him as a hostage to keep him from messing around on the Stoddard territory. Not that this stopped him from communicating with his daughter psychically, pretty much warping her mind from day one. Although I have a feeling that Sally always would have been a psychopath, one way or another. She just might not be as good at it.”

“So this is revenge?” Victoria asks.

“That’s what I said, but no, it doesn’t seem that way,” Stiles says. “Sally just thinks she finally found a worthy opponent to play games with. And she’s not going to stop. Which is why I tried to shoot her. Unfortunately, she was using an illusion so the only thing that got hurt was a hapless building wall.”

Derek glances over at him and squeezes his shoulder. “The only people who know Sally’s parentage are now the people in this room,” he says. “The Stoddards don’t know. Sally killed the person who had arranged everything, and even the people who raised her were never told about her parentage.”

“Jesus,” Chris says. “Maybe you shouldn’t have even told us.”

“Maybe not,” Stiles says. “But you needed to know. You _deserved_ to know.”

Chris’ gaze flickers to him, then away, and he mutters, “Yeah, I guess.” Victoria reaches over and squeezes his wrist, and she looks at Stiles with genuine warmth in her gaze. He figures he’s forgiven for not bringing her Sally Stoddard’s head on a silver pike now.

Tom is looking at Deaton, since Chris doesn’t need more of an audience than he already has. After a moment, he says, “You okay, Alan?”

“I really don’t know,” Deaton says. “I think it will take some time to adjust to this. The idea of Sebastian having fathered a child . . . is truly terrifying, to be honest.”

“No lies detected,” Stiles says.

“So now we know for sure that her family wouldn’t believe us,” Allison says. “And as much as I’d love to implement a more permanent solution, I doubt she’d make that easy for us. So what do you want to do, Stiles?”

“I think we have to wait,” Stiles says. “I know it’s not the optimal solution, and to be honest I flat out hate it, but . . . this game is over. When she starts the next one, we’ll find our chance. Until then, we go back to San Francisco, we watch our backs. I refuse to not live my life because of some psycho.”

“I agree,” Tom says.

The doorbell rings again and Victoria stands up to get it, smoothing her hands down over the skirt she’s wearing. Chris looks suddenly tense and anxious, hands drumming at the table, but he refuses to give into it or ask who else is there. A minute later, she comes in with Jake and Phil in tow. Jake has his arm around his younger brother’s shoulders. “Hey, Uncle Chris,” he says.

Chris draws in a breath, but manages to speak in an even tone. “Hey. Tom and Melissa treating you okay?”

“Yeah, they’re great,” Jake says. He nudges Phil in the ribs and says, “Phil had something he wanted to say.”

Phil steps forward, his face creased in misery. “I’m sorry, Uncle Chris. I’m really, really sorry. This is all my fault.”

Chris takes another breath. “I understand,” he says. “I know that your parents were really tough on you. I can’t say ‘it’s okay’, because it’s not, but I appreciate the apology.” He forces a smile. “Victoria will probably give you plenty of chores to make up for it.”

“Oh . . .” Jake looks between the others. “We were going with Uncle Julien, I thought.”

“I figured you wouldn’t really want Phil here,” Stiles says, looking between Chris and Victoria.

“No,” Chris says, surprising him. “I do. Because . . . I don’t want the house to be empty. It would be like . . . admitting defeat. No, if you two want to stay, we’ll be happy to have you.”

Phil bursts into tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, throwing himself into Chris’ arms.

Jake has to knuckle away a few stray tears, too. “Thanks,” he says. “I didn’t want to go, but he’s my brother. I have to take care of him.”

“And you will,” Victoria says, squeezing his shoulder. Stiles has a feeling that Victoria’s going to have some words with Jake about keeping an eye on his brother. He’s not particularly worried about this being part of some long con – otherwise, Sally wouldn’t have tried to murder Phil – but he can see why Victoria wants to be extra sure.

“Shame we made Julien fly out here all the way for nothing,” Tom comments.

“Well, it’s not exactly for nothing,” Chris says, looking up from where he’s patting Phil awkwardly on the back. “We need to decide what to do about Henry’s territory. It’s still Argent land. Julien and I will talk it over. Sam might be old enough now, though it’s a lot of land to start with. We’ll see what he thinks.”

Stiles nods. “On that note, we’re going to get going,” he says. “I have an epic session with my therapist I need to set up, and a week of classwork to catch up on. Allison, I think we’ll probably just stay here the weekend and head back on Sunday. I’ll talk to you before then, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” she says, and stands up to give them a hug goodbye.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Allison calls Stiles the next day to let him know that Mikael and Annika are leaving, if he wants to go down to the airport to see them off. Stiles had asked Victoria the previous day to make sure that they weren’t at their conference, and she had told him that Mikael hadn’t been feeling well and they actually hadn’t seen much of him. Stiles is glad to hear that he’s okay, and that he wasn’t poisoned or anything crazy like that.

He can’t imagine what sort of cookies Mikael would like – he’s so foreboding sometimes that he really doesn’t seem like the cookie type – so he makes some banana nut muffins and brings those instead. Mikael looks at him like he’s from another planet when he hands them over, and Stiles can’t help but laugh.

“Hey.” Annika walks over, glaring at him. “Talk to you for a sec? Privately?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, a little surprised, but not wanting to argue. They walk out of the hangar and stand in the fresh autumn air.

Annika’s quiet for a minute before she starts speaking abruptly. “Look, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I was a psycho bitch during the Conclave.” She impatiently tucks her hair behind her ear. “Uncle Greger had filled our heads with all this bullshit about getting glory and living up to the family name and how much our dad wanted us to succeed. It’s not an excuse, I just figured I should say I’m sorry and actually mean it. Unlike, you know, when Dad forced me to apologize.”

“Apology accepted, and appreciated,” Stiles says. “And to be honest, my behavior during the Conclave wasn’t exactly exemplary. I was on the defensive and stressed out from being separated from my pack and it might have caused me to behave like a little shit a couple of times. Again, not an excuse, just an apology.” He frowns a little as she fiddles with her hair again. “Look, can I tell you something? It seems pretty obvious to me that you didn’t come with your dad on this trip just because he needed the backup, but because you didn’t want to let him out of your sight. Am I right?”

Annika glares at him, but then looks away, her lower lip trembling. “I can’t . . . stop thinking about what happened,” she admits. “I see it over and over again in my head. I know it happened so fast, but I feel like I should have, _could_ have, done something. And now I’m all like . . . any time there’s a loud noise or something, I get super jumpy, and I just . . . stupid, right?”

“Noooooo,” Stiles says, shaking his head vigorously. “No, that’s the opposite of stupid. That’s post-traumatic stress disorder, and I know _exactly_ how it feels.”

“Yeah?” Annika looks up at him, then quickly away.

“Let me guess: you also keep thinking ‘why is this affecting me so much, I should be stronger than this, there’s no reason to react this way’,” Stiles says, and Annika scowls again. “Yeah, trust me, I know that feeling. I know _all_ those feelings. Believe me, I don’t think I’d be doing any better if my dad got shot in front of me.” He frowns for a minute, thinking over what he’d seen of Mikael recently. “Annika, is your dad okay?”

“I can’t really . . . I’m not supposed to talk about it,” she says.

Stiles takes that as a ‘no’. “I won’t tell a soul. You have my word.”

Annika looks up at him and then huffs out a sigh. “He’s okay, I mean . . . he’s not dying or anything. But the head injury was worse than he made it out to be to a lot of people. He gets these blinding headaches sometimes. And he forgets things. Like, things that we just told him. It’s like he wasn’t listening, even though we know he was.” She fiddles and says, “That’s the other reason I came along. So I could take over as pilot if he had a problem.”

“You’re a licensed pilot, too?” Stiles asks. “Jesus, I really oughtta look into that.” He sees her expression and says, “Sorry. Go on.”

“That’s it, really,” Annika says. “My mom and his lieutenant have taken over a lot of the strategy and stuff, even though physically he’s almost back to normal. But he doesn’t want anyone to know because he’s afraid our borders won’t be secure if people find out he’s not in charge. Because, to quote, people are sexist dicks.”

“That’s not a quote,” Stiles says.

“It’s a paraphrase,” Annika replies. “It’s what he _meant_.”

“Gotcha,” Stiles says.

“So nobody outside the family knows, and now you, so if other people find out, I’ll know it was you, and I’ll come back to Beacon Hills and feed you your spleen,” Annika says.

“I won’t tell,” Stiles says, “but your threat has been noted.” He stops walking, reaches out and takes her hands in his, gives them a squeeze. “Here, I’ll tell you one of my secrets in exchange,” he says. “I’m claustrophobic. Really, severely claustrophobic. The alpha who came here way back when kidnapped me and left me in the trunk of his car. I was there for two days before my dad found me. That’s what started this whole mess. And I had to have a _lot_ of therapy for how fucked up I was afterwards. I said all the same things. ‘It wasn’t that bad’ and ‘I should be stronger than this’. So I know how it feels. But I also know that your dad wouldn’t want you to keep suffering because of what happened. I’m going to e-mail my therapist and ask her for some names of someone up in South Dakota for you, who you can talk to. Okay?”

Annika sighs. “I guess I can’t stop you from sending it to me.”

“Just think about it. Okay? And put your contact info in my phone.”

Annika accepts his phone when he hands it over and starts putting her name in. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Stiles thinks about it for a minute. “Because I’ve learned a lot about forgiveness and second chances, and good and evil, and how much better things are if I can make friends instead of enemies.” He takes his phone back and says, “Hey, that was kind of profound, huh? I sound like the wise old mentor in a karate movie. Wax on, wax off.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Annika scoffs.

“Oh yeah,” Stiles agrees. “I am a _huge_ nerd. No lie detected. C’mon, you’ve got places to be. Planes to fly. Muffins to eat.”

“Nerds to get away from,” Annika says, but despite the words, a reluctant smile is tugging at one corner of her mouth.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles e-mails Gwen ahead of time to ask her to meet him in the courtyard, because he’s been feeling intensely claustrophobic ever since getting back from Wyoming. He also e-mailed her detailing the events of the last week, because he doesn’t want to spend the entire session having to explain what actually happened.

It’s a little chilly, being October, but it’s nice in the sun. Gwen is sitting at one of the tables wearing a cable knit sweater and slacks. Stiles walks up with Derek on his heels; he doesn’t think he’s going to be anywhere out of Derek’s sight for the next three to four weeks. Or months. He’s considering bringing him to classes, even, because he’s been so jumpy in public. “Hey,” he says, sliding into the seat across from her.

“Hi,” Gwen says, her hands folded on the table in front of her. “How have you been holding up since getting back?” she asks, wanting to know how things currently stand before deciding how to handle this.

“I’m a piping hot mess,” Stiles says forthrightly. “I’m barely sleeping, tense and anxious, and super claustrophobic. I had to shower with the door open this morning.”

“At least you’re able to be in the bathroom long enough to shower,” she says. “That seems like a good compromise for now.”

“To be honest, if it weren’t fifty-five degrees out, I would probably stand outside naked and let Derek spray me with a hose,” Stiles says.

“But it is fifty-five degrees, and you were able to control the claustrophobia enough to shower inside,” Gwen points out. “It’s important to know that you can do that, and that there are things you would find more unpleasant. Like being hosed down. Perspective is important.”

“Yeah, I’m all about having perspective,” Stiles says with a sigh. “I’m apparently also all about having panic attacks. Like two or three every day. And at least a couple more that I manage to stave off.”

“Do you know what specifically is triggering those?”

“Well, usually I’ll be sitting around minding my own business and then I’ll accidentally start thinking about the fact that there’s a psychopath who wants to play torture games with me like I’m starring in the new Saw movie, and then suddenly I’m hyperventilating.”

“Why does Sally frighten you more than any of the other people you’ve had to deal with?” Gwen asks.

Stiles stops to think about that one for a minute. “I don’t think she does,” he finally says. “I think that I’m just super on edge after everything that’s happened and that’s just . . .” He flaps a hand and continues, “It’s like I’m already constantly on the edge of a panic attack all the time and thinking about her just keeps tipping me over.”

Gwen gives him an encouraging nod. “We can work with this,” she says, her voice confident. “Do you want to start today or do you just want to vent?”

“I don’t . . .” Stiles lets out a shuddery breath. “I’d rather work on it, I mean, I’m going back to San Francisco straight after this appointment and so I’ll probably have to skype my next couple sessions. Besides, I’ve actually done a fair amount of venting.”

“Okay. We can schedule those when we’re done for today.” She presses her hands against the table. “What we need to do is work out the whole mess so thinking about Sally is something you can do rationally. Overall, it’s a disastrous mess. So I think we should break it down and do the hardest part first, so it gets easier as we go. Does that sound like a workable plan to you?”

“Sounds hideous!” Stiles says. “Let’s do it.”

That gets a small laugh out of her. “Out of all of it, beginning to end, I want you to think about the event that bothers or upsets you the most. And then tell me about it.”

“Oh, geez,” Stiles says, and lets out a wavering breath. “There are so many to choose from.” He reaches down to absently smooth down Derek’s fur, feeling a bubble of panic already welling up in his throat. He closes his eyes and forces it back down. He’s been having a lot of nightmares lately, about a variety of things. “Okay. Okay.” Stiles takes a deep breath, hands drumming at the table for a few moments. “So when Ariah took us out into the wilderness to kill us, Ian kicked her ass by way of . . . getting shot a whole bunch of times and then collapsing on top of her. It, um, it was a better plan than it sounds like, I promise.”

“I’ll have to trust you on that, since you and your pack survived it. Why does that bother you?”

“Well, the thing is, Ian is a shapeshifter, right? And he was kinda wearing my face at the time, so I basically got to see myself shot and die.” Stiles gives a shudder. “It shouldn’t matter. I mean, I know it wasn’t me, but I keep . . .”

“You keep what?” Gwen prompts.

“I keep seeing it.” Stiles shudders again. “When I close my eyes, when I’m trying to sleep, _in_ my sleep. I keep seeing myself die.”

“Okay. I’m going to give you some homework on this one. Every time you start to think about it, to see it in your mind, I want you to try to stop and imagine him changing into someone else. Anyone else’s face except you or someone you care about. It doesn’t have to be someone you dislike. Use a celebrity or a stranger. Just someone that won’t upset you so much. But at the end, I want you to imagine him getting back up. Because that’s essentially what happened.”

“Actually he dissolved into dust and then reappeared a few feet away and made a smart remark, but – ” Stiles flaps his hand at her and says, “ – I take your point.”

Gwen nods once. “So try that. Do you want to try it here?”

“Do I want to voluntarily picture myself dying and then attempt to turn it into someone else’s face? Well, no, not really.” Stiles manages a wan smile. “But I will if you think I should.”

Gwen smiles back. “I think it will help, in time. And I think it would help you to try it here, so I can help you through it.”

“Okay.” Stiles rakes both his hands through his hair and then pats the bench next to him. “Get up here, fuzzbucket. I need something to hang onto.” Derek obligingly hops up onto the bench so Stiles can twist a hand into his fur. He closes his eyes and thinks about it, thinks about Ian leaping forward and the sound of the gunshots and the blood going everywhere. He thinks about Ian flickering through forms until he lands on Stiles’ face, the trickle of blood coming out of his mouth. “Okay, shit, I’m freaking out,” he says, feeling that bubble of panic rising up again. His heart is hammering in his chest, and he feels nauseous. Derek leans in, resting his chin on Stiles’ shoulder, letting Stiles clutch at him.

“Okay, stop for a minute. Open your eyes,” Gwen says.

Stiles does as he’s told, trying to catch his breath. “Yeah, okay. I’m with you. Sort of.”

“That’s good. Now take a deep breath.”

Stiles nods and lets Gwen talk him through some of the deep breathing exercises that he uses when he feels a panic attack coming on. “Okay, I can do this,” he says.

“You want to try again?” Gwen asks, careful not to push him.

“Yeah. I want to . . . to make sure I can do it.” Stiles closes his eyes and pulls it up in his mind again. It’s problematically easy. He can still see everything crystal clear. But he manages to keep himself calm while he pictures Ian’s face changing. After a long silence, he begins to giggle, but tamps it down, trying not to sound hysterical.

“Was that a good laugh?” Gwen asks.

“Yeah, I mean . . .” Stiles snickers again and opens his eyes. “I knew if I pictured some random person my logic train would get in the way, so I, uh, I used Bruce Banner. You know, the Incredible Hulk?”

“Okay. And?”

“And Ian would probably be thrilled. I’m . . . shaky. But not panicky. So, you know. I’ll take it. Maybe next time I’ll try Thor.”

“And here I thought it might be Alan Rickman in a vulture hat,” Gwen says, smiling. “Making it amusing or ridiculous is a fine way to rewrite the scene.”

“Okay. I’ll keep . . . keep doing that, then.”

They continue to work on that for about another ten minutes before Stiles feels confident that he can do it at home. He scratches behind Derek’s ears, knowing that Derek can always tell when he’s about to have a panic attack, and will be able to remind him. Then they spend some time going over his panic attack strategies and talking about his claustrophobia.

“I’m just really worried that I’m going to have a panic attack during one of my classes,” Stiles admits towards the end of the session.

Gwen considers this for a minute before saying, “Had you thought about the idea of an actual service dog?” she asks. “It seems like you don’t want to ask Derek to start going with you.”

“No, I do, I just . . .” Stiles turns pink a little as Derek sits up, ears pricking up. “He can’t put his life on hold for me.”

“Well, you don’t actually get to tell him what he can and can’t do,” Gwen points out. “So I suggest the two of you have a discussion about it. He survived high school with you; if he feels like he can manage a couple college classes, that’s his prerogative. But there is still the option of getting a real service dog.”

“I’m not sure I could justify dragging some poor canine into the chaos that is my life,” Stiles says.

“Just think about it,” Gwen says. “We can talk about that more next time. In the meantime, talk to Derek. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He says he’ll call for his next appointment and heads towards the parking lot, feeling a little dejected. He knows he’s doing the best he can; he knows that just about anyone would be a mess if they lived his life. But there are times when he really wishes he could wave a magic wand and just fix all his psychological problems.

“I don’t mind going to classes with you,” Derek says abruptly, before Stiles can bring it up. He glances at Stiles and adds, “I like spending time with you. Even if we can’t talk.”

Stiles smiles despite himself. “Sappy much?” he teases Derek.

Derek scowls at him but doesn’t precisely argue. “If I’m sappy, it’s your fault,” he growls.

“Probably,” Stiles says, cheering up. Derek just shakes his head, puts the Jeep in drive, and heads down the road, leaving Fresno and heading back to San Francisco. The drive takes about three hours. By the time they get there, everyone else is back. The apartments are full of noise and light, music blaring, people complaining about their catch-up work.

He spends the next hour making spaghetti sauce to go in the crock pot for a few hours, while Derek and Erica take turns reading to him so he can catch up on some of his class work while he works. The others are in and out. He puts dinner on the table at six thirty, and everyone piles into the kitchen. It’s chaotic and loud and happy, and he sits without saying much for once, just watching.

“What are you thinking about?” Scott asks him.

“I’m thinking,” Stiles says, “about how we’re not going to let anyone take this away from us.”

“Hear, hear,” several people say, and they all clink their glasses together.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Devil's Luck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11587518) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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